


most ardently

by quidhitch



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, M/M, but I'm having fun, but it be like that, i was rlly scraping the bottom of the barrel with vision as colonel fitzwilliam LOL, this is the least faithful adaptation maybe ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/pseuds/quidhitch
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a genius playboy in possession of the world’s largest tech conglomeratemustbe in want of a skinny little artist with an attitude problem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nanasekei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanasekei/gifts).



> this is a marvel trumps hate fill for fernanda! <3 i hope u enjoy buddy

**i.**

Steve Rogers really likes his life.

At first glance it isn’t much: a job at a trendy Red Hook bakery, a side hustle doing art commissions, three best friends he loves so fiercely it scares him sometimes, and the broom-closet of an apartment they all share in Brooklyn. Money is tight and Bucky is always letting his terrifying dates drink all their orange juice, but there are days he thinks he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

That feeling is particularly salient on nights like this one, when Sam’s incredible mac and cheese is cooking in the oven and they’re planning on popping The Princess Bride in as soon as Natasha gets home from work.

They may all be tired, overextended, and perpetually on the edge of bankruptcy, but dammit if they couldn’t eat good food and collectively cry during nostalgia films. After all, Steve’s mom taught him to be a firm believer in the power of the little things, and she insisted on multiple occasions that it wasn’t _just_ because Steve, full grown at 4’’11 and 95 pounds, could reasonably be classified as a little thing himself.

“Another save-the-date,” Sam sighs, tossing the invitation on the counter and settling into the stool next to Steve. “Aren’t people supposed to do this shit over the summer? It’s September.”

Steve momentarily looks up from the drawing on his laptop and rubs a soothing circle on Sam’s back. He thinks Sam’s probably less annoyed by so many of their friends getting married and more annoyed by the fact he’s been working back to back shifts at the hospital all week.

“Whose wedding?” Bucky asks, skirting up near the island and poking Sam’s side. Sam jerks away, frowns at him, and promptly tackles Bucky to the floor. While they tussle - and break something? There’s a breaking sound - Steve leans up out of his seat to peek at the invitation.

“Marie-Louise and Rhonda,” Steve sighs, settling back into his chair and running his fingers over the embossed lettering, “we have to go. Marie-Louise set me up with a commission that paid three months’ rent last year.”

“Also, we love her,” Sam chokes out — a quick glance backward tells Steve he’s struggling out of Bucky’s headlock.

“Also we love her,” Steve agrees, already turning back around to put the date in his calendar.

“Hey,” Bucky pants, “didn’t Rhonda go to MIT with Tony Stark?”

Steve frowns. “How do you even know that?”

There is yet another breaking sound, and Steve turns around to see the fight resolved over the ruins of a lamp he thinks was probably already broken. Bucky still looks vaguely guilty, and Sam pats him consolingly on the shoulder.

“Bucky has a Google alert for every rich eligible bachelor under 30 in Manhattan.”

“Excuse me, Sam,” Bucky says, grinning wickedly, “that’s every rich eligible bachelor under _40_. I’m not an ageist.” He struggles to his feet, then pulls Sam up after him. His socks slide a little and they nearly careen over the edge of the couch. Steve smiles fondly and turns back to his computer screen, fingers hovering over the keys.

“Tony Stark like Stark Industries, right?” he asks, reluctantly typing the name into Google. “The one whose dad died a couple years ago?”

“Yeah,” Sam confirms. The oven goes off and he moves rapidly back into the kitchen, Bucky trailing behind him like an excited puppy. “He’s in the tabloids ‘cause he parties a lot.”

Steve nods and takes a sip of his beer, perusing through the Google results. _Tony Stark hits the Malibu club scene with brand new babe! Tony Stark does thousands of dollars worth of property damage in Prague! Tony Stark revolutionizes the way we think about clean energy!_

“His net worth is 100 million dollars?” Steve balks, though he’s momentarily distracted by the smell of mac and cheese wafting from Sam’s direction.

“Yeah, he’s richer than god.” Bucky hops up on the kitchen counter, thudding his heels against the cabinets in that way he always does even though he knows it will annoy Sam. “We should get Natasha to pinch his Rolex. That’d probably cover rent for the rest of the year.”

“We don’t need to rob Tony Stark,” Sam admonishes, ever the voice of reason. “We are strong, independent millennials. And we all have steady jobs right now. We’re going to be just fine.”

There’s a moment’s pause, then all three of them nearly sprain something in their haste to knock on the wooden edges of the countertop.

**ii.**

When Sam makes eye contact with him over a glass of prosecco in the middle of yet another toast about the power of love, Steve nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to slip out into the hallway.

“Thank god,” Sam emerges moments later, throwing a grateful arm around Steve’s shoulder and leading them rapidly away from the dance hall. “I was dying in there.”

“How many people have tried to set you up with their sickly daughters?” Steve asks, grinning.

“Oh man, at least five.”

The venue tonight — a historic hotel in the heart of Brooklyn — offers many convenient hiding places where they can both escape the crushing feeling of being the only single people in a sea of newly married couples. In no time at all Sam has found them a dimly lit staircase sectioned off with some red velvet rope and a strategically positioned potted plant.

Steve and Sam maneuver around it - probably not as gracefully as is customary because they’ve both had a few drinks - and settle respectively on the second and third steps.

“Whew,” Steve says, leaning his head back against the step above him. The soft carpet cushions his neck nicely. He could probably take a nap here. “How much longer do we have to watch Bucky grind on drunk bridesmaids?”

Sam snorts around the lip of his beer. “Until he passes out? Or one of the brides stabs him to death. Either works for me.”

Steve makes a noncommittal sound of agreement, eyes drifting closed. “At least Natasha found some fun.”

“I think fun found Natasha. Graduated-first-in-his-class-at-MIT-James-Rupert-Rhodes took one look at her and he was smitten.”

“No kidding. Think she’s spent, like, thirty minutes with us the whole reception.”

“She looks happy,” Sam says quietly, and Steve opens one eye to look at him, mouth tipping up in an affectionate smile.

“She does. I hope it goes somewhere. Rhodes looks happy, too.”

“An impressive feat, considering he brought his annoying ass best friend as a guest tonight.”

It’s Steve’s turn to snort now. Much to his wry amusement, the infamous Tony Stark had spent the entire evening leaned up against the wall of the dance hall, engrossed in his phone and steadfastly avoiding eye contact with everyone. Even though he was almost absurdly handsome, and actually seemed pretty charming in interviews and tabloids, Steve got this air from him the whole night, like maybe he thought he was too good to be rubbing elbows with the other guests. Steve had spent three and a half years at NYU on a full ride scholarship - he could sniff out entitlement with bloodhound-like precision, and it seemed to be coming off Stark in waves.

“You see anyone you might be interested in?” Steve asks Sam, eyebrow lifting in curiosity.

Sam’s smile dims a little and his gaze drops from Steve’s. He shakes his head. “Nah. That’s okay, though, I’m not really looking for anything right now.”

This was most definitely untrue considering the countless nights Steve had watched Sam flip through Tinder on the couch in their shared living room, but he bites his tongue on any objection. If it was really that important to him, he’d let Sam hold onto his pride.

They chat for a little longer in the darkness of the staircase, settling into the kind of easy, comfortable back-and-forth that characterizes their friendship. Steve doesn’t realize they’ve been gone for a half hour until he glances down at his phone screen, which proudly displays 13 missed texts from Bucky.

They’re about to rejoin the festivities when Sam braces a staying hand against Steve’s chest, nearly sending him tumbling backward. He looks at Steve with wide eyes and suddenly Steve realizes it’s because they can hear approaching voices and footsteps, people speaking in low tones who are clearly clueless to the fact they’ve got an audience.

Steve’s about to tug Sam into the light because eavesdropping is wrong, but a snatch of the conversation gives him pause.

“Seriously, Tony, there are so many gorgeous people in the room tonight. You couldn’t find one of them to entertain you?”

“Says the guy who’s dancing with indisputably the sexiest girl in a 50-mile radius.”

Steve looks at Sam with wide eyes and Sam presses his finger to his lips, grinning like a moron. Steve huffs out a small, barely perceptible sigh and presses his laughter into Sam’s shoulder.

“She’s kind of blowing my mind,” Rhodes replies, sounding a little dazed. Steve can’t see his face but he imagines it looks like a little like he just got hit by a bus. A bus of feelings. For Natasha. “I’m gonna shoot my shot, ask for her number.”

Steve and Sam exchange a look like _yeah. That’s our girl._

“—but her friends are pretty cute, too, right? Thought Steve kinda looked like your type."

Tony snorts and Steve’s stomach gives a mortified, sickening jolt. “He’s fine, I guess, but definitely not worth waking up in Brooklyn for. Come on, Rhodes. Let’s find a backdoor somewhere. If I’m gonna make it through another hour of this sappy bullshit I need a cigarette.”

Steve can feel Sam’s eyes on him and he rapidly arranges his features into something wry and teasing.

“What a fucking dick,” Sam says quietly. He carefully leaves pity out of his voice, knowing Steve well-enough to estimate how that would go over. “Probably better he thinks that, anyway. If he liked you you’d have to deal with him hitting on you.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Steve laughs a little, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s. “Dodged a bullet.”

They fix their appearances a little and head back into the main reception hall to rehash the story to Bucky and Natasha. Steve tells it with a touch of that wry, self-deprecating wit he knows they’ll both appreciate. Bucky offers to punch Tony out and Natasha stays suspiciously silent, taking small, measured sips of her champagne.

**iii.**

Of course, the wedding party is small enough that they can’t help but run into each other face to face that evening. Steve goes to tell Natasha that he and Sam are going to wrangle Bucky into a cab, and subsequently gets roped into a half-hour conversation with her, Rhodes, and Stark for his troubles. It’s not too awkward because Rhodes is so charming and amiable, easily chatting Steve up about the Brooklyn art scene and his fellowship at the Pratt Institute. Stark doles out lazy interjections every once in a while, cheeks flushed and eyes unfocused as he sips from a cocktail that never seems to empty, no matter how much he drinks.

“Anyways, Sam and I really oughta get going. He’s got an early shift at the hospital tomorrow and Bucky’s gonna need the rest regardless.”

All three of them glance over to Bucky, who appears to be flirting earnestly with an ice sculpture. He’s so obviously drunk, no room for interpretation in the nearly incomprehensible slurring of his words and the way he can’t quite keep his balance, even though he’s trying to stand still. Steve feels a brief flicker of embarrassment, followed by a strong surge of affection.

“Looks like he’s in for a rough morning, tomorrow,” Tony drawls, a little smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

And that makes Steve really angry, for whatever reason, so he can’t help but respond:

“Well, his prospects were barely fine to begin with. He was always gonna wake up in Brooklyn." Steve pauses meaningfully, eyes narrowing just the slightest bit as he stares Tony dead-on. "With me.”

He ignores the confusion that settles onto Natasha and Rhodes’ expressions, instead luxuriating in the light embarrassment and surprise that manifests on Tony’s features. His eyes widen and his smirk drops off completely.

“I’ll see you later, Nat,” Steve reaches over to squeeze her arm briefly. “And it was nice to meet you, James.”

He walks away with his hands tucked in his pockets, grim satisfaction pulling in his stomach.

**iv.**

A couple weeks into the relationship, Natasha spends her first night at Rhodes’ place. Then she spends the next night there. Then the next one. Steve would be more worried if she wasn’t sending him bi-daily text updates, but still. He misses her, which is why the second he sees she’s calling him, he scrambles to pick up the phone and nearly knocks over his own paint water in the process.

“Is he a serial killer?” Steve starts, only half-joking, “did he try to kill you and you killed him first? Do you need help burying the body?”

“First of all, I’m perfectly capable of burying the body myself,” Natasha says primly, and Steve concedes that this is probably true. “Second of all, why is the only possible reason I could be calling you murder-related?”

“Because I’ve been your friend for four years and for the majority of that time you’ve been, like, right on the edge of murder. We’ve got an apartment pool going on how long you’ll last.”

“I know.”

“We know you know. You know everything. So why are you actually calling?”

And then, Natasha — well. Steve wants to say she giggles, but Natasha Romanoff does not giggle. Not unless she’s trying to trick some guy into paying for all their drinks or she sees a really, really, really cute kitten. Like, lethal levels of cute. The kind of cute that’d probably make Sam cry a little, and also make Bucky pretend like he wasn’t crying.

“Sorry, I’m in the sitting room and they’re—“, she coughs, smoothing her voice into something more measured. He hears a little shuffling in the background, and he assumes it’s the sound of her stepping off to somewhere where she can’t be heard. Or distracted.

“—Anyways. I’m calling because I want you to come over for breakfast. And I want you to bring me a fresh pair of clothes, underwear, and some perfume. I bought a twelve-pack from the convenience store, but they’re all granny panties so they’re not even remotely date-approved.”

“Yes, I’m sure you look just horrible naked, now,” Steve deadpans.

“Shut up,” Natasha says, “it’s okay if you don’t have time, though. It’s obviously not an emergency.”

Steve’s brow furrows. Natasha sounds far too blasé to actually be blasé, and the fact that she’d put that much effort into convincing Steve she doesn’t care makes him certain that it’s pretty serious.

He heaves a sigh, appraising his unfinished portrait which he will definitely not have time to finish this weekend since he has back to back shifts at the bakery and the Pottery Barn. He could wake up early Monday morning to finish part of it, then chug three Red Bulls after work and clock a couple night hours to wrap up. It’d be fine. He’d work it out. He always did.

“I’ll be over in thirty,” he sighs, turning on the sink to rinse out his brushes. “Text me everything you want from the apartment. I’d say text me the address but I assume ‘Stark Tower’ is already on Google Maps?”

“I love you.”

“You better. I’m in and out of there in under an hour, Natasha.”

“Yes, of course. Promise.”

**v.**

It had been two and a half hours.

First, they’d had lunch, and lunch was fine because it was just Natasha, Rhodes, and Tony’s friend Sunset, who looked a little like a succubus but appeared to have no intention of seducing Steve, so he figured she posed no notable threat. After lunch things took a turn when Steve tried to make his escape, and Natasha had gripped his hand a little too tightly under the table, proceeding to draw him into sitting room to partake in The Conversation That Would Never End, wherein Steve’s most significant contributions were 1) commenting on the weather, 2) displaying his woefully inadequate knowledge about the Manhattan club scene, and 3) washing the dishes while everyone two rooms away talked about a TV show he’d never heard of.

Then Natasha had ducked out of the room to take a shower and told Steve she’d just be twenty minutes, and Steve wasn’t sure if he was allowed to leave or if that meant she wanted him to stay, so he’d hovered awkwardly in the kitchen until Rhodes and Sunset needled him into round two of only slightly less excruciating small talk. At least Steve plucks up the courage to ask if it's alright that he does a little sketching while he waits, and Rhodes is very sweet about it even though Sunset continues to eye his notebook like it might contain an annotated copy of the Kama Sutra.

And then Tony Stark makes an appearance.

Steve figured it was only a matter of time — his last name is, in fact, plastered in unmistakably large font over the top of the building. He seems to have come from some sort of business meeting, though his tie is hanging around his shoulders and there is a vaguely indecent amount of buttons undone on his shirt. His eyes catch on Steve immediately, and Steve resists the urge to try and make himself smaller under the intensity of the stare.

“Honeybear, you didn’t tell me we were entertaining,” he muses, shrugging off his suit jacket and throwing it haphazardly over one of the ugly modern couches. He pours himself a glass of scotch. Steve glances at his phone - the time reads 2:13.

Rhodes looks like he wants to say something about the drinking, but he purses his lips a little and shakes his head. Sunset, sitting next to him with her absurdly long legs draped one over the other, eyes Tony like some kind of starving jungle cat. Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“How was the meeting?”

“Fine,” Tony says, and downs his entire glass of scotch in one swallow, then goes to pour himself another. “The usual.”

“Obie giving you a hard time?” Sunset asks, cherry red lips curving into a pout. Rhodes flashes her a wary look out of the corner of his eye.

“Obie’s fine,” Tony waves a hand dismissively, finally moving away from the scotch and into the living room, collapsing onto yet another hideous piece of furniture that can’t possibly be comfortable. Steve glances up at him to find that he’s already looking, and Steve’s struck with the jarring notion that Tony’s thinking about what he looks like naked. Though, upon further examination, he figures that’s probably how Tony Stark looks at everyone.

Everyone, that is, except Sunset, Either he doesn’t notice how desperate she is for his attention or he doesn’t really care, and something about that is both irritating and amusing to Steve.

“You draw?” Tony asks, inclining his head slightly at Steve’s sketchbook. Steve presses down the urge to huddle it closer to his chest.

“Yeah,” he says carefully, pencil stilling over the page, “yeah, I was an art student.”

“Really? Where?”

“Most recently with the Pratt Institute.”

“Cool,” Tony says, but Steve’s certain he has absolutely no idea where or what that is.

Sunset seems to pick up on this, too, because she lets out a high-pitched, grating laugh that, as short as it is, captures everyone’s attention. “I didn’t know you were interested in art, Tony.”

“Art’s great,” Tony shrugs noncommittally, taking a small sip from his glass. “Artists are sexy.”

Tony isn’t looking at Steve while he says it, so Steve quickly resolves that that’s not flirting — that can’t possibly be flirting, right? Because if it is, it’s really bad flirting and shouldn’t Tony Stark, world-renowned playboy and the supposed most eligible bachelor in Manhattan, show a little more expertise?

Sunset leans forward, a hint of a challenge glimmering in her eye. “Do they crack top ten sexiest professions?”

“I don’t know, Sundrop, I’ve never made an itemized list.”

“Maybe you should look into it. Cosmo would sell you a fortune.”

“I already have a fortune,” Tony mutters, rubbing at his face like he’s tired.

“Well, what do you think, Steve?” Sunset turns her attention on him and there’s something mean in her smile, something that makes Steve wish Natasha was down here instead of these three strangers who have more money currently in their pockets than he’ll have in the next six months.

Still, Steve considers the question, setting down his pencil for a moment. He looks up at Sunset with a small, cool smile. “I don’t know. Any job that tends to attract honest people,” he once again resists the urge to squirm when he feels Tony’s eyes on him. “Kind people.”

“That’s so cute,” Sunset says, voice dripping with sugar-sweet condescension. She abruptly lifts off the sofa, and Steve’s impressed that she rises in one fluid movement despite the fact she’s wearing somewhat menacing-looking six-inch heels. “Tony, I’m bored. Let’s go down to the lab, you can show me what you’re working on.” She turns to Steve then, a benevolent smile that reeks of falseness plastered across her face. “I run a company as well — Baintronics? Tony and I went to MIT together.”

“I was also there,” Rhodes grumbles. Steve feels a small surge of affection for him.

“Yeah, alright,” Tony sighs, but he couldn’t sound more bored with the idea. He drains the rest of scotch and sets the glass on the floor. As he comes back up he glances at Steve’s notebook, eyes flicking over the rough sketch in interest. It’s Natasha on the page, though her face is turned away from the viewer, so Tony probably wouldn’t be able to identify her anyways. She’s doing a pirouette, arms curved in a graceful arc above her head.

“That’s pretty good,” Tony says quietly, mouth tipping into a crooked smile. Their eyes lock and Steve feels — an unidentifiable emotion flutter through his chest. And he thinks he’s also blushing, which is so embarrassing that his first instinct is to say something really mean.

“Thank you,” he tries instead, though his eyes narrow slightly in suspicion. This only makes Tony smile wider, an attentive, curious glimmer flickering in his eyes. Steve will admit that he’s kind of obsessed with Tony’s eyes — so wide and big and dark that he can feign disinterest all he wants, but they’ll give away nearly everything about him. After a half second, Steve almost starts to smile, too.

The moment is broken when Sunset says “Tony” in a sharp, jarring voice, and starts clicking her heel impatiently on the hardwood.

“Right,” Tony muses, leaning out of Steve’s space, though he keeps looking at him as he backs up, that same playful little smile on his face. “See you later, Rogers.”

 _Fine,_ Steve forces himself to remember. _He called you fine. Exact words ‘not worth waking up in Brooklyn for’. He’s the worst and you hate him._

“Bye,” Steve says in a hollow voice, and has to put a concerted effort into not staring at their retreating figures.

**vi.**

Steve meets Brock Rumlow at the bakery. The bakery is Steve’s favorite job - better hours than the Pottery Barn and better company than the frozen yogurt store, plus he gets to take home pastries at the end of the day and curry favor with his hungry roommates. That afternoon, Steve’s coworker has stepped out and he’s alone in the shop singing along to Abba (slightly off-key) under his breath.

When the bell hooked to the front door tingles to signal the entrance of a customer, Steve looks up and finds that he’s _immediately_ interested.

Brock is a very specific kind of hot - scruffy and rough in a dirty kind of way, plus he has this corny Staten Island accent that reminds Steve of the kids he grew up with. He’s very obviously interested and makes no attempt to hide it, and normally that’d be a turn off since Steve’s still on the clock, but today it feels.. a little nice to be wanted. Steve tries to convince himself that it has nothing to do with Tony’s comment at the wedding, but he’s mostly unsuccessful.

Steve’s shift ends and he lets Brock buy him a hot dog from the stand across the street. Brock’s eyes get all dark and sexy when Steve licks ketchup off the side of his hand, and, yeah, okay, Steve’s gonna give him his number. He’ll let him dangle for another half hour, but he’s definitely giving him his number.

“What’re you doing Friday night?” Brock asks, leaning up against the side of a building, hands shoved in his pockets. He smells a little like smoke, so Steve figures he probably wants a cigarette and is really only holding back for the benefit of the asthmatic in the near vicinity.

“Got plans,” Steve replies with a grin, popping the last bit of hot dog in his mouth.

“You got a girlfriend or something?”

Steve shakes his head.

“Boyfriend?”

Steve rolls his eyes. Corny. But that was alright, Bucky was pretty corny, too, and he loved Bucky.

“Alright, then, Rogers, spill. What are your big plans?”

Steve opens his mouth to offer some vague, nondescript answer, but the words die in his throat when he catches sight of a figure cutting a very familiar, lazy gait across the street. His eyebrows must shoot up to his hairline because Brock swivels to look, too, and makes a not-so-subtle sound of derision at the sight.

Steve has no idea what business Tony Stark has in Brooklyn, but he seems sufficiently distracted from it by the sight of Steve staring at him.

Rhodes suddenly materializes next to him, ducking out of a car Steve realizes must be Tony’s. He offers Steve a friendly wave, and Steve returns it. Tony remains frozen, eyes flicking between Steve and Brock, some unreadable expression on his face. The spell is only broken when Rhodes tugs on his arm, effectively leading them both in the opposite direction.

“Sorry,” Steve says, shaking his head as if that’ll disperse the image of Tony in well-fitted three piece suit. “One of those guys is dating my friend. He’s hosting a party, this Friday, that’s why I’m busy.”

Brock looks strangely affected by this information, fingers flexing in a vaguely threatening way. Steve’s watched muscly guys do that too many times to be afraid — it’s usually preceded by a punch, and Steve can take a punch — but the mannerism does pique his interest.

“Hope your friend’s not datin’ Stark.”

“You know him? Like, personally? Outside of the tabloid situation.”

Brock snorts and shakes his head, shoving his hands back into his pocket. He breaks Steve gaze and looks off down the street. “Yeah. I do. That guy got me fired from the best job I ever had in my life.”

“Shit,” Steve says, because he honestly has no idea what else to say. He’d figured Tony was caught up in some nefarious crap in the way that most disgustingly wealthy people were, but it was one thing to speculate and another to receive direct confirmation.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to probe Brock for any elaboration. Apparently, Brock had secured a pretty cushy job in the security department of Stark Industries, even managing to meet Howard a few times before he passed. And Howard had thought pretty highly of Brock, shown him a kind of respect people in the lower ranks of SI didn’t usually get. He’d promoted Brock to head of security just before he’d passed away, but in the months following his death, Tony had convinced the new CEO of the corporation, Obadiah Stane, to fire him. Brock tells Steve it might’ve been out of some sort of jealousy since Tony had a pretty notoriously rocky relationship with Howard.

Steve feels a pang of sympathy for Brock, and also maybe a little of what Bucky calls his “Righteous Anger For The Dispossessed”. Tony had fucked Brock over pretty severely for what seemed like petty interpersonal drama. It was absurd and entitled — two things he now strongly associated with the Stark name.

“Anyways, a lotta my friends still work for SI, so I actually got invited to that party you’re talkin’ about,” Brock shrugs and rubs his chapped lips together pensively. “Dunno if I’m gonna go, though.”

“You should,” Steve finds himself saying. He wants to see Brock again. Or at least he thinks he does, it’s been a while since someone made Steve this curious. Maybe it’s attraction and maybe it’s something else, but Steve thinks he owes it to himself to try and puzzle it out. “It’ll be fun, and you can probably avoid Tony pretty easily since there’ll be so many people there.”

It doesn’t actually take much convincing to get Brock’s word he’ll make a brief appearance on Friday — Steve manages it on the walk from the hot dog stand to the Subway station. Steve very narrowly dodges Brock’s attempt to kiss him as he steps onto the platform, but they do exchange numbers so the promise of something later is still alive. He doesn’t know if Brock’s really a long-term relationship kind of guy, but he could be.. fun to have fun with, if Steve could wrap his head around the idea of starting something like that. He ponders it on the way home, relaying every detail of the afternoon to Sam via text and receiving a series of alarming emojis in response.

_he sounds hot af i say go for it_

_but be safe and make sure he knows how to respect a boundary lmao_

 

_Yeah of course. Definitely not looking to jump into anything but we’ll see._

_Oh my god though you won’t BELIEVE what he told me about Stark._

**viii.**

Steve probably shouldn’t have let Natasha dress him, but the suggestion that Brock might be at the party tonight had clouded his judgment. He regrets it deeply now that he's actually at the party and he couldn't feel less like himself, tugging awkwardly at the sleeves of a cropped gray sweatshirt and adjusting the waist of jeans that are so tight they look like they’re painted on. Before they’d left Sam had appraised him critically and asked ‘doesn’t he look a little too come-and-get-it?’ and Natasha had replied ‘we share a wall. It’s been a year and a half. He wants people to come and get it’.

And Steve had been too embarrassed to object, really, so there they are.

“Stop fidgeting,” Natasha tells him, shoving a beer in his hand.

Steve’s fingers close reluctantly around the sweating bottle. “How am I supposed to dance in this? The second I move my arms I’m gonna flash the whole room.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Half your stomach and maybe one nipple does not a scandal make, Steve.”

Steve heaves a sigh and brushes the hair off his forehead, trying to get accustomed to the feeling of the shirt rising with the movement. He steadfastly avoids eye contact with everyone looking at him, though the second he turns around to try and find a private corner to text Brock, he runs head-first into Phil Coulson.

Phil ordered a commission from Steve about six months ago, and he’s been obsessed with Steve’s work ever since. It’s pretty flattering and Steve appreciates how much of his art Phil has purchased, but Phil’s personal interest in him is a little... weird.

But he’s incapable of saying no to anyone, so he agrees to a dance, then another dance, then another, enduring Phil’s awkwardly intense flirting all the while. He keeps looking for Brock, but Natasha takes a break from stroking Rhodes’ biceps to tell him that she chatted up a couple of his friends, and, apparently, Brock couldn’t make it and probably would’ve been more inclined to make it if the party hadn’t been hosted at Tony Stark’s house. Steve grimaces and sighs, but doesn’t have too much time to think about it anyways, because Phil’s popped up by his side again, commandeering him for yet another horribly long remix.

When the last beats of the song finally pump out of the speakers, Steve insists he needs to find the bathroom. Convincing Phil not to follow him is far more difficult than is comfortable for either of them. The second he tugs his wrist out of that slightly clammy grasp, he starts off in the opposite direction, wiping sweat from his brow and neck with the sleeve of his shirt.

When he’s finally fought his way to the edge of the crowd, he heaves a sigh of relief and settles into one of the stools propped up against the bar. He holds onto his self-control for half a minute before giving up and attempting to fish his phone out of his criminally tight pants.

“Having a good time?”

Steve jerks to the side to find who else but Tony Stark, with his back to the bar and his legs spread so wide that it’d be impossible for someone to occupy one of the seats next to him without touching him. He’s wearing his usual posh clothes - expensive looking jeans and a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a Rolex strapped around his wrist and a glass of whiskey clasped loosely in one of his hands.  He looks like an ad for a men’s fragrance that costs more than Steve’s annual salary.

“It’s been fun,” Steve concedes carefully. Brock’s most recent confession about Tony still swims in the back of his mind. “You have a very nice apartment.”

“S’not really mine,” Tony drains the last of his drink and swivels to face Steve, appraising him languidly, “what happened to your eye?”

Steve can’t help the flush that rises on his cheeks at the question. He’d recently broken his 7-months-long no-fistfights-in-alleyways streak over a guy giving a girl a hard time at one of those pretentious hipster bars in Brooklyn. Natasha had offered to cover up the healing bruise with foundation, but Steve thought it’d be hardly noticeable in the poor lighting of a party anyways. Apparently not.

“Got in a disagreement.”

“Uh-huh.” Amusement runs through the low timbre of Tony’s voice, “you get in a lot of disagreements?”

“No,” Steve says immediately, then shifts a little, trying to decide if Tony’s condescending towards him or…doing something else. “—yeah. Maybe. I have a lot of opinions.”

Tony doesn’t say anything to that, just raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into a small, amused smile. He’s startlingly handsome in that moment, the dark glimmer of his sharply intelligent eyes still alluring to Steve, even given everything he knows and everything he’s seen. Steve finds himself momentarily disarmed and Tony seems to realize it, because he suddenly sets down his empty glass, gives Steve yet another excruciatingly thorough once-over, and says, in a low, curious voice, “alright, slugger. Come dance with me.”

And then Tony is reaching for his hand, the rough pads of his fingers sliding over Steve’s skin in a way that sends a thrill darting down the line of his spine, and Steve tries very hard to remember I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, but despite the chorus echoing in his head he finds himself being led away from the bar and towards the center of the dance floor. He looks down at where Tony’s fingers are clasped loosely around his and the sight makes his breath catch in his throat.

The crowd subtly parts for Tony, though people’s eyes catch on Steve like he’s some sort of zoo animal. He almost unconsciously tightens his grip around the calloused fingers clasped between his, and suddenly Tony’s coming to a stop, tugging Steve close and settling his hands on Steve’s narrow waist. Steve doesn’t really know what to do with his own hands, so he settles for placing them on Tony’s shoulders, though the proximity nearly makes him vibrate out of his skin.

 _I barely know him,_ Steve thinks suddenly, looking up at Tony with wide, clear eyes.

—Unfortunately, despite the electric start, things get very awkward very quickly.

“Good song,” Steve says carefully, feeling a little uncomfortable in the silence.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, looks like he wants to say more, then abruptly closes his mouth. “Really good.”

More silence.

“See, it’s your turn to make small talk now,” Steve weakly teases, “something about how packed is. Or how hot it is.”

“Oh,” Tony’s smiling a little. Maybe. The whole moment feels surreal, like Steve couldn’t possibly be the one experiencing it. “There’s way too many people here. And I’m sweating like a motherfucker. Was that good?”

“Not bad. Guess we can shut up now, if you want.”

“Shutting up sounds alright.”

A few moments later, though, Tony’s talking again, his hands tightening a little around Steve’s waist. “So how do you know Brock Rumlow?”

Steve bristles a little, then hesitates, observing some sort of tightly contained emotion flick across Tony’s face. “He came in for a coffee at the bakery where I work,” Steve says quietly, though frustration underscores the admission. “He’s been having a pretty rough time of it, lately. Figured he could use a new friend.”

“He makes plenty of friends,” Tony’s eyes flash in a way Steve would characterize as dangerous, “think his real problem is keeping them.”

Steve doesn’t know how Tony could be so blasé about it, the fact that he ruined this man’s life. He feels anger rising up in him, quick and cutting, but he presses it down the best he can.

They fall silent again, waiting out the rest of the song. It’s strangely intimate, even if said intimacy is underscored by a more serious tension. They maintain contact throughout, though the press of Tony’s hands against his waist is nothing compared to the intensity of his gaze, like somehow he could unearth Steve's secrets through his eyes alone. When the song ends, Steve offers Tony a tight thanks and slips away, in desperate search of Natasha, Sam, Bucky or some charitable stranger who could help him unravel that extremely puzzling interaction.

He resolutely ignores the slight quiver in his hands, the blush still staining his cheeks.

**ix.**

Steve comes home from work the next day to see Bucky tucked up against Sam on the couch, watching the soothing nature channel under a pile of blankets. The kitchen is an absolute wreck, which means Sam has been stress baking at night-before-MCAT levels of intensity. Sitting on the coffee table is a truly ominous mountain of Snickerdoodles.

None of this bodes well.

“Hey, guys,” Steve says carefully, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it into the hallway closet. He approaches the couch with caution, first making eye contact with Sam, whose expression is a worrying mixture of grim resignation and concern.

Steve crouches by the couch and pats Bucky’s hand, eyebrows drawn together. “What’s going on?”

“Natasha didn’t go to work today,” Sam chews on his lip, then tugs the blanket a little tighter around Bucky, “she hasn’t come out of her room in ten hours. Bucky has several theories on how she’s peeing.”

“None of them are good,” Bucky chimes in, voice muffled by fabric.

Steve, still deeply confused, shakes his head, “I don’t understand, what happened?”

Sam sighs and wriggles around a bit, jostling the blanket mountain in his attempt to fish his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants. He unlocks it and holds the screen up to Steve’s face, displaying a news alert titled in neat, black print. Steve’s blinks in confusion at the headline.  

PLAYBOY TONY STARK RETURNS TO MALIBU! HE AND BEST FRIEND, JAMES RHODES, HAVE A MEMORABLE NIGHT ON THE TOWN. Beneath the headline is a photo of Tony with his arm slung around Rhodes, both holding empty glasses. Tony’s laughing at something happening out of shot and Rhodes is looking pensively at his shoes.

“I don’t understand, they — they’re taking a weekend trip to California?”

“Don’t think it’s just for the weekend,” Sam says softly, shoulder dropping in a resigned shrug. “Nat got this cryptic text from Rhodes. He didn’t say when they were coming back.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “What the hell? That literally makes no sense, why would they just up and leave like that?”

“We don’t know. But Steve, I’m pretty worried. I’ve never seen her take something this hard, I think maybe you should talk to her.” Bucky nods in agreement, jostling the bundle of blankets curled up in Sam’s lap.

“Okay,” Steve chews on the inside of his cheek, wishing he knew what on earth he was going to say, “okay, yeah. I’m gonna go talk to her. Jesus.”

The first time Steve knocks on Natasha’s door, he gets no response. He waits another thirty seconds then knocks again, says ‘it’s me’, and endures another brief spell of silence.

“You can come in.”

She’s sitting at her desk, legs folded in front of her, a notebook on her lap. Steve doesn’t actually know what it is Natasha does for a living — none of them do — but the most specific description he’s ever gotten is ‘internship for the State Department’. He thinks she’s working from home right now, based on the number of pens, notebooks, and print-outs scattered across her desk. Her face is clean and her hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail.

Steve closes the door behind him and just looks at her, arms folded over his chest.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” She sighs, a small whisper of a thing, glances down at her lap, and starts to speak in a mild, hollow voice. “It’s silly to cry. I knew him for a month. I don’t want to cry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Do you think— maybe I should, though?”

“You don’t have to,” Steve reassures again, “but if you want to try, then I’ll be here. Do the whole hand you tissues, feed you ice cream bit.”

“Okay,” Natasha says softly.

So they both climb onto the bed and Steve sits with his back against the headboard and Natasha rests her head on his thigh. Steve runs his hand through her hair and they just sit there, and Steve talks about his day a little, texts Sam to bring them ice cream, and worries about Natasha. They stay like that for three hours and she doesn’t cry, but she does look up at Steve and ask “why didn’t he call?” in a quiet, puzzled voice. Somehow that feels worse.

**x.**

A month and a week later, Steve sees Tony Stark at a gallery opening in midtown. He takes a moment to ruminate on the irony -- he’s barely gotten the chance to celebrate the man’s departure, and he’s already traipsed back into Steve’s life in an impeccable three-piece suit.

Honestly, this is what he gets for attending an event outside of Brooklyn. He’s going to have words with Thor, later, about choosing a location on the _Upper_ _East Side_ to display his work.

He steadfastly avoids Tony the whole night, but oddly enough ends up chatting with who appears to be his guest for the evening -- an amiable British guy who introduces himself as ‘Viz’. He tells Steve that Tony’s just in town for the weekend, doing some business in Manhattan before heading back to Malibu.

“I understand your apprehension. He is an acquired taste,” Viz says wryly, eyes fixed on the corner of the room where Tony is entertaining a small, laughing crowd. “You don’t know him as I do. He has a good heart.”

“If you say so,” Steve responds skeptically, drumming his fingers against his wine glass.

“I assure you I am entirely earnest.”

“I know,” Steve placates, mouth tipping into a teasing smile. “And I believe you believe he’s a good person.”

Viz puts his hand on his chest and laughs a little, then makes a face like the simple sound of it has startled him.

He’s a pretty weird guy.

“You’re very stubborn,” he tells Steve, shaking his head though maintaining a patient smile.

“So I’ve been told.”

“But you’re mistaken, about Tony. He’s so deeply loyal to those he loves,” Viz presses, then looks down and absently examines the face of his own watch. “Just last week I learned that he talked one of his dearest friends out of a dead-end relationship.”

Steve freezes, lets the words process, then struggles vehemently against the urge to break composure. “I’m sorry?”

Viz doesn’t seem to read anything into the tone of his voice, because he presses on with that same absent expression. “Oh, yes. You might’ve met him -- James Rhodes? Apparently, he was dating someone who expressed absolutely no interest in a future with him. She might even have been manipulating him, taking advantage of his kindness. Tony convinced him to cut his losses and focus on his career.”

Steve sets his wine glass down on the bar, thinking if he holds it any longer his grip might actually shatter the thing. It’s then that Viz glances up with this slightly concerned look on his face, but Steve excuses himself before he has the chance to say anything.

He doesn’t know what to do, really, except thank his lucky stars Natasha isn’t in attendance tonight. He knows he can’t confront Tony during the gallery opening, but he also knows that he can’t stay in this room watching Tony schmooze everything with a pulse for the next hour and a half.

So he resolves to take a minute in the alleyway behind the gallery, call Sam, catch his breath, and devise a plan of attack. The second the cool air hits his skin, he knows he’s made the right choice, and he takes in long pulls of it, pressing his head to the stone wall behind him and letting his eyes drift closed.

Steve's peace lasts about thirty seconds.

It is, of course, interrupted by Tony Stark bursting out of the back door like he’s going to war, stumbling to a clumsy stop in front of Steve, and awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it abruptly, and just looks at Steve with wide, glittering hazel eyes.

They spend several painful seconds like that— just staring at each other.

“Something I can help you with?” Steve says tightly, folding his arms over his chest and eyeing Tony warily.

“No,” Tony says immediately, petulantly, then seems to cut himself off. There’s another moment’s pause before he shakes his head and sets his jaw, that same strange determination coming over his features. “Fuck — _fuck_ , wait, okay. Yes. There is.”

“Are you drunk?” Steve asks, slightly incredulous.

“I’m always drunk," Tony mutters, something resembling resignation creasing his brow. He looks away from Steve, eyes dim and unfocused. "That’s really something you should know about me before we continue this conversation.”

And _that_ sounded like a… problem. A personal problem. Steve stalls momentarily, and, against his better judgment, wonders if maybe this isn’t the best time for a confrontation. “I mean,” he works his jaw, fingers curling tightly around the keys in his pocket, “do you need a ride home? Do you need me to call someone?”

Tony scoffs, a loud, derisive sound that makes embarrassment curl low in Steve’s stomach. Steve can’t stand it when he does that, makes him feel small and inferior with the slightest noise or gesture.

“No,” Tony rubs at his eyes, like maybe he’s just been sleeping, “no, I don’t need a ride home, but — Jesus, do you have to say stuff like that?”

“Like what?” Steve snaps, initial irritation surging with renewed vigor.

“Like, all - all fucking chivalrous and sweet and shit. Offering to give the son of the merchant of death a ride home. Jesus. Someone’s going to take advantage of that if you’re not careful.” Steve would wonder if that was some sort of weird threat, but Tony sounds genuinely disgruntled and frustrated. The comment makes some strange emotion shift in Steve’s chest, though he convinces himself it’s as uncharitable as everything else he’s felt towards the man in front of him.

“Thanks for the warning,” Steve says shortly. “Why are you here?”

“‘Cause I’m a fucking idiot.” Tony pauses, moving his hand away from his face and meeting Steve’s eyes again. There’s a startling sort of honesty there that steals the breath right out of Steve’s traitorous, asthmatic lungs. “‘...Cause I — ‘cause I like you. Fuck, Steve, I like you so much, it’s ridiculous.”

 _What?_ Steve thinks, heart dropping through his chest and straight down to the soles of his beat-up sneakers.

“It’s — it’s stupid. It’s so stupid. This is — I cannot _like_ you. I cannot like _you_.” The changing emphasis makes something heavy and uncomfortable settle in the pit of Steve’s stomach. “You live with three roommates in a disgusting health code of a building. You are literally a starving artist. You’ve gotten arrested at three different protests in the past six months alone. Also, your body is constantly on the verge of just giving out on you. My dad would’ve hated you, and Obie, god, Obie would literally kill me if he knew I was here, ‘cause not only did you not go to an Ivy, there’s also the small issue of you not being a woman—“

Brief, intense sympathy darts through Steve’s chest, but it’s mostly overpowered by embarrassment and anger.

“—but fuck, Steve, I can’t stop thinking about you. Your hair, your eyes, your mouth, god, I’ve spent hours lying in bed thinking about your goddamn mouth. Why does it always look so soft? You have, like, three thousand different medical problems but you can’t have something that makes you ugly? It’s not even just that I wanna fuck you — but it’s also that, I mean, I really wanna fuck you — but I have— I mean I’m having—“ Tony cuts himself off and squeezes his eyes shut really tight. When he opens them, he looks so trapped, so frustrated with himself, that Steve can hardly stand it. “—Feelings, I guess. Intense, romantic feelings. For you.”

He finally falls silent, and Steve is literally unable to speak for several, dragging moments. All he can do is stare at Tony— Tony whose entire body is alight with tension, Tony whose hands are flexing at his sides, Tony who has made heat sweep through his stomach and rage course through his veins all in the span of three minutes.

“No,” Steve says, voice quivering a little. He curls his hands into fists at his sides and resolutely ignores the hurt that flashes across Tony’s face, ignores the responding tug in his own chest. “I mean — I don’t even think you asked me out in… all of that… mess.. but even if you had — no. That was — god, I can’t see how you’d be disappointed given that you just rattled off an itemized list of reasons I am _unsuitable_ for—“

“—Fuck, Steve, I didn’t mean it like—“

“—no!” Steve insists, because some small part of him had maybe been anticipating this, had been curious about this, but every awful instinct he’d had about Tony Stark had been right. “No, god, you’ve said enough! Literally, why would I want to date you? Before tonight the nicest thing you’ve said about me is that I was ‘fine’! You’re a snob and a playboy and, most importantly, you ruined the best relationship Natasha’s had maybe ever! What possible reason could you have for doing that? Did you think she wasn’t good enough for him? Just ‘cause she’s from Brooklyn and she didn’t go to a fucking Ivy—“

“Jesus Christ, no, Rhodey doesn’t give a fuck about any of that! I just didn’t think she actually liked him that much!”

“What?” Steve asks, incredulity spreading over his features. “Are you kidding me? They were smitten—“

“—he was smitten, she was indifferent!” Tony insists, dragging a hand through his hair. His voice is rising to a decibel that matches Steve’s, and Steve briefly contemplates how ridiculous they must look, having this argument at 12 AM in an alleyway that smells a little bit like pee. “I was protecting him, he was falling too fast too hard and she barely treated him any differently than she treated you or me or anyone else!”

Steve opens his mouth to deal some scathing retort, but he finds himself stuttering, because — well, he could understand, maybe, how it might come off that way to someone who didn’t really know Natasha. She played things startlingly close to the vest, and even though it didn’t change the fact that Tony shouldn’t have meddled, that… it could’ve been a stupid miscommunication.

“—Whatever,” Steve concedes, rattled, but folds his arms over his chest in continued defiance. “Then what about Brock?”

The effect is immediate - Tony’s expression darkens and closes up entirely, his beautiful eyes narrowing to slits. He steps forward a little, almost unconsciously, it seems, and Steve suddenly feels a different kind of flush start to rise on his neck.

“Please,” Tony starts, voice icy in a way that feels utterly foreign, “tell me, how could Brock fucking Rumlow possibly be relevant to this conversation?”

Steve swallows, but presses forward, his wounded pride spurring him on, “You ruined his life! You took away the best job he ever had! And you didn’t even tell him why, and he’s been struggling so much this past year and you don’t even care!”

“Right. Because when I think ‘who do I know who’s faced hardship’, the first name that comes to mind is definitely Brock Rumlow,” Tony mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm as he stares intently into Steve’s eyes like he’s searching for something. He’s—  he’s so close, now, close enough that Steve can feel the ghost of Tony’s breath fan out along the bridge of his nose.

“How can you make light of that?” Steve presses, though it’s admittedly a little hard to focus with Tony’s face so close, Tony’s _lips_ so close. “How can you— he’s a person. We’re all people, I know that’s hard for you to remember while you’re sitting on the top floor of the ugliest building in Manhattan, but—“

“—so this is it, huh?” Tony cuts in, that same stormy look in his eyes, “This is what you think of me?”

“Does it surprise you?” Steve chokes out a bitter laugh, chest still tight and roiling with anger. “From the second I met you I knew it, Tony Stark — you are the last person on earth I could _ever_ see myself with."

Another small, tense silence descends upon them, and the space between their bodies has shrunk so dramatically that Steve’s struck with the strange notion that they keep trading the same three angry breaths, in and out, tension animating every movement. For a split-second Steve swears that Tony’s eyes drop down to his mouth; but then he’s pulling away, stepping back rapidly and pressing a hand to his forehead as if to collect himself. The tight line of his shoulders quivers once, then he abruptly turns on his heel and reaches for the door, swinging it open with tightly controlled anger.

The slam of it closing nearly makes Steve jump out of his skin, and he leans against the wall for support, finding his knees a little weak at present. He presses his cool fingers to his forehead and cheeks, but heat has settled deep within his skin and refuses to dissipate.

**xi.**

Steve feels like absolute shit the next morning.

He replays the events of the night before on a loop in his head: he knows he was right to reject Tony, he knows he was right to call him out on interfering with Natasha, and he knows he was _definitely_ right not to hate-kiss him, but he can’t shake the image of those pained dark eyes which are apparently permanently burned in the back of his mind.

He’s embarrassed, maybe. Humiliated. Every time he tries to do bills or paint or take up some household chore, right as he hits a streak of productivity, he’ll remember one of the lines from Tony’s horrific speech and abruptly want to _fling himself out a window._

Jesus. He’s never been an ace at social interaction, but this hostile half-acquaintanceship with Tony Stark has really made Steve’s batting average swing to all-time lows.

When he finds a Stark Industries USB Drive in his P.O. Box that afternoon, his first instinct is to toss it in the blender. It’s small, sleek, and black, a strangely heavy weight at the center of Steve’s palm. He tries his best to ignore it for the better part of the evening, but after a while it feels like it’s burning a hole in the pocket of his sweatpants. Despite the fact he’s risking infecting his entire household with Tony Stark’s Cyber-Virus Revenge, he succumbs to his curiosity and plugs the drive into the port on his computer.

He nearly falls out of his stool at the responding hologram.

Literally. _A hologram._ Steve couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping if he tried.

It comes from the edge of the USB itself, the black body of it giving way to reveal a sliver of a silver panel and a tiny projector lens. Steve spends several moments examining it in wonder before realizing he’s supposed to — tap the air? He’s suddenly sitting at the center of a spread of glowing blue lines, and at its nexus there’s a button labeled ‘listen’.

He feels slightly ridiculous as he does it, but the second his index finger makes contact with the projected lines, Tony’s voice starts coming out of the speakers on his laptop.

“Uh— hey, Steve. Sorry if this is weird. Rhodey said I should write a letter and trust me, I really, really gave it my best shot, but I kept trying to strike an appropriate letter-writing tone by using words like ‘thusly’ and ‘methinks’, which, like, if you knew me you’d know that’s… um. Not me. —So I made this. For you. It didn’t actually take that long, the technology is pretty simple, the crux of it’s basically—“

The audio makes a funny squiggling sound, then abruptly cuts forward.

“—Sorry. I just spent an hour and a half explaining AI stuff in a level of detail some might describe as ‘excruciating’. I think I’ve caused you enough pain, so I’m just gonna skip over that. I guess I’m just avoiding getting into what I really want to say. I feel like I owe you an explanation for last night, because sometimes I can come off kind of… asshole-y. Yeah, I’m definitely an asshole. I guess I’m just not used to people outwardly calling me an asshole, and I—

Another funny squiggling sound.

“—Anyways. Okay. Number one. I’m, uh, really fucking sorry about Natasha and Rhodey. While I honestly thought she didn’t like him and he was just kind of temporarily infatuated her, the second we skipped town I realized that wasn’t true.” The blue webbing of the hologram parts, and a few photos of Rhodes pop up, looking fairly unhappy at what looks like various LA clubs and parties. In one, he’s clearly rebuffing the advances of some girl, buried in his phone and ignoring her completely as she paws at his arm.

“And, um. You might be right, about some of the stuff you said or implied about me not approving of the relationship because of where she comes from. That was mostly done unwittingly, but looking back I think maybe some of my own biases played a role in how quick I cut them apart. The way I’ve been raised, the relationship I’ve had with Rhodey over the years — these aren’t excuses, but I hope they’ll… contextualize the decision. A little. ‘Cause I know it was abrupt.”

The audio cuts more cleanly this time, and the photos of Rhodes are swept away, suddenly replaced with pictures and recordings of Brock. It takes a moment for Steve’s brain to comprehend what he’s seeing, but the second he does his stomach starts to sink.

Shit.

There are three video feeds. The first one features Brock bullying some of the younger interns at the company, the second one is Brock using what looks like excessive and unnecessary force to take down a girl covered head to toe in Tony Stark paraphernalia, and the third is Brock shaking Howard Stark’s hand with the smuggest, smarmiest look on his face.

“There are parts of Brock’s story that are true — he was hired to Stark Industries before Howard died. And Howard promoted him. But he didn’t tell you the actual reasons he got fired — which are, I think, displayed pretty clearly for you here. This isn’t even half the footage I have on this asshole. There was also some inappropriate fraternizing with one of our interns who had, like, just turned eighteen. No feed for that one — you’ll just have to take it on faith.”

All the tension in Steve’s chest and stomach seems to unspool all at once, giving way to the cool slide of realization, the sudden feeling that he’s gotten something horribly, desperately wrong.

“—Anyways, breaking Brock’s contract to fire him means we had to pay him a pretty hearty severance package. If he’s blown through the money that fast, it’s ‘cause of his own poor financial planning. He’s really not suffering as a person in any way. I know why you thought he might be, why you were so quick to listen to him — I realize I’ve been — maybe not the… easiest person, to believe, or like, or whatever. But he’s a fucking shithead. Please just — I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but — um, he doesn’t have your.. best interests… at heart."

There’s a pause where Steve mentally envisions Tony doing a facepalm.

“God, I sound like somebody’s dad. This is actually probably a good place to wrap it up. I guess I just wanted to say — I’m sorry. For this whole mess. And I’m not going to bother you with this stuff again. —And I, um. Hope everything goes well for you. In general. In the future. Okay, signing off, now.

There’s a tentative pause in the recording that, for some reason, makes Steve’s breath catch a little in his chest.

“So. I guess that’s it. See you around, slugger.”

The program powers down. Steve blinks at the blank air around him for several seconds, then sits up straight, unlocks his laptop, and plays it again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i can say is Yeesh(TM)

**xii.**

The next few months bring about a dramatic though not altogether unwarranted reshuffling of Steve’s life.

Natasha takes a job in California. It’s an amazing career opportunity and she reminds Sam, Steve, and Bucky that James Rhodes does not have a monopoly on the entire state. Steve can only hope that, for Rhodes’ sake, there are no coincidental run-ins.

Sam gets a summer research fellowship at Hopkins. He didn’t even tell any of them that he applied, apparently because he didn’t think he had a chance given the rest of the selection pool. When Bucky finds out, he tackles him into a hug and breaks yet another lamp, then realizes this’ll mean he has to move out for the summer, and goes on to spend the rest of the night clinging to Sam like an overeager limpet.

Steve’s happy for his friends, of course, but he’s also starting to feel — starting to feel a little anxious, about his own life and choices, especially considering commissions have trickled to an all-time low despite his best efforts at advertisement. He’s knee deep in his third existential crisis of the month when he gets an email so promising that he’s initially convinced it’s spam.

 

 

 

>  
> 
> Dear Steven Rogers,
> 
> I hope you don’t mind me reaching out — I received your contact information from Professor Desai at the Pratt Institute. After viewing samples of your work on your website, I believe you would be an excellent candidate for a job opening in the creative department of Arc Technologies, a nonprofit geared towards advancing clean energy and combating climate change.
> 
> Arc has recently launched a youth initiative which endeavors to get young people passionate about our work and cause. We’re looking for someone who can help design logos, flyers, and merchandise for our Green Teen Challenge (slated for release in October). We want to create youthful, fun designs that will speak to adolescent interest in environmentalism. This is a completely new initiative for the company so its creative direction would follow your impulses entirely. I’d be the contact person for the project, effectively liaising between your team of interns and our investors.
> 
> We would require a 3-month commitment, and we would like you to work out of our San Francisco facility. Arc is happy to cover the costs of a temporary move and provide accommodations. Please see the attached document for additional details regarding compensation.
> 
> If possible, we’d like to hear your decision by the end of the week. I understand that’s quite a short turnaround, but the timeline of the initiative is quite unforgiving.
> 
> Think it over and get back to me. My contact information is provided below.
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> Virginia Potts
> 
> Executive Project Manager
> 
> (work phone) 360-875-9231
> 
>  

Steve opens the attached document, and his heart literally skips a beat at the number printed next to ‘salary’.

However, he quickly runs into a very different kind of impediment — after further research into ‘Arc Technologies’, he discovers that, while the company is a completely legitimate operation, it is one of the 32 organizations under the management of the Stark Industries Conglomerate.So there is the small issue of Steve having vehemently rejected the inheritor of said conglomerate less than two months ago.

“It’s not gonna be a problem. You won’t even see him, he’s, like, an engineer, right? He designs weapons?” Sam urges, muffled voices audible in the background of the call. Steve has so far resisted the urge to interrogate Sam about his summer roommates — more specifically, whether they are cleaner and smarter and just generally cooler than him and Bucky — but that does nothing to suppress his curiosity.

“Not just weapons,” Steve sighs, clicking on yet another article about Tony’s “incredible advances in renewable energy”. Most of it seems like mindless PR, but there are a couple of serious environmentalists who’ve aggressively endorsed his work and encouraged an expansion of SI’s charity divisions. “He’s on the R&D team for Arc, too.”

“I mean, yeah, but do you think they let him do that more than once or twice a year? He’s barely sober enough to get through a board meeting, investors probably want what little focus he has to be honed in on the stuff that actually makes money. Guns and shit.”

“You know, I actually don’t think he needs to be sober to get things done.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam sounds skeptical, and Steve briefly envisions him rolling his eyes. “Listen, Steve, this sounds like an amazing opportunity. Stark’s in Malibu, you’re in San Diego, and Natasha is in Santa Barbara! Stark is easily avoided and you and Nat can spend weekends together. Don’t overthink it.”

“Right,” Steve says, actively overthinking it.

Despite his initial agonizing, however, he takes the job. He emails Ms. Potts an hour and a half before the deadline, resolutely ignoring Bucky’s evil eye the entire time. Bucky is understandably whiney about the fact that he and Sam are leaving him alone with weirdo subletters over the summer, but he’s also — kind of jumpy, which isn’t really like Bucky, so Steve resolves to visit him at least once if his schedule and salary allow. They both cry a little at the airport goodbye. It’ll be the longest they’ve spent apart from each other since Bucky studied abroad in Germany their junior year.

There’s something that feels so distinctly grown up about unlocking the door to a brand new apartment, completely void of the sounds of Sam and Bucky roughhousing, someone watching Deadliest Catch at full volume, and the walls slowly crumbling around them ‘cause of that structural problem they never completely resolved. For the first time in several months, Steve wishes he could call his mom.

But he doesn’t really get the chance to feel lonely, because Natasha surprises him by turning up on his doorstep two hours later, a bottle of wine and four seasons of Rupaul’s Drag Race on DVD in hand. They get wonderfully, deliriously inebriated and Steve, interestingly enough, spends the majority of the night with thoughts of Tony Stark and his revolutionary solar panels swimming in the back of his mind.

**xiii.**

To Steve’s immediate surprise, he takes to Arc Technologies like Bucky takes to a crowded club of drunk, sweaty twenty-somethings grinding to the stylings of Beyoncé. The building is small and modest, five stories high and constructed of simple concrete, thankfully nothing like the overly show-y Stark Tower. The walls are decorated with art from people’s kids, lots of prints from Steve’s favorite impressionist painters, and, funnily enough, embarrassing photos of the CEO.

“It’s a running joke around the office,” Margaery from accounting tells him, proudly holding up a Polaroid of Tony mid-sneeze. “GQ sent this framed photo of him for the reception hall, and one night someone replaced it with a printed picture of him laughing so hard he was squirting soda out of his nose. We all just about died from how funny it was. Ever since, the only photos we hang up of Tony are the silliest-looking ones. We just like to tease him.”

“And he responds well to that?” Steve asks, appraising the photo with a small smile. Margaery hands him another one where Tony’s hair is all stuck up like he’s been electrocuted. “The teasing?”

“Oh of course,” Margaery giggles and shakes her head, the chain on her reading glasses swinging back and forth with the movement. “He likes to be in on the joke, I think.” She fixes the photo with such a sweet, affectionate expression that Steve can’t help but think — _Tony Stark, right? We’re talking about Anthony Edward Stark? Who refers to his own father as the Merchant of Death?_ “Not a lot of people are comfortable enough to have fun with him like that, in New York. I think he gets lonely there, sometimes.”

Steve doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just nods.

As it turns out, Margaery’s feelings are held by all forty of the employees currently working in the tiny Arc Technologies facility. _He paid off my student loans_ , says Deja from Research and Development. _He let me take his Ferrari for a test drive_ , says Harpreet in Reception. Even the lady who runs the whole operation, Virginia “Please, call me Pepper” Potts, has a tiny framed photo of her, Tony, and Rhodes at Niagra Falls from a couple years ago.

“Before I took over Arc, I was Mr. Stark’s personal assistant,” she explains, red lips tipping into a tender smile. Again, Steve can’t help but think — _have you met him? Have you met this guy?_ Being his personal assistant sounds like the worst. Job. Ever. “Admittedly, it took a while for him to grow on me, but Tony’s sweet when you get to know him. Eccentric and pretty stupid, for a genius, but sweet all the same.”

Steve would be more unsettled by all of this if it didn’t seem so genuine. After working no less than twelve different shitty retail jobs, he knows the difference between I Love My Boss and In Case My Boss Is Listening, I’m Gonna Say I Love My Boss But I Actually Wish They’d Rot In Hell. Every Arc Technologies employee is firmly of the former persuasion. It’s — strange, is what it is. Even the three nineteen-year-olds he’s working with on the youth team can only sing his praise.

“I’m ethically opposed to billionaires, but Tony is… okay,” his moody creative intern, MJ, tells him. She doles out the endorsement pretty reluctantly, but MJ’s reluctant about the expression of any positive sentiment, so that doesn’t say much, really. When Steve raises an eyebrow at the not-quite-compliment, she just shoves his arm and tells him to stop distracting her, which is how he’s certain it’s genuine.

Ned, who works on web design, says that Tony custom-made him the missing piece to his lego death star when he lost one last year, so that basically makes him eligible for sainthood. Steve internally concedes that that’s… kind of adorable.

The other intern, Peter, is on a whole other level. He’s worked directly with Tony on multiple different occasions and clearly idolizes him. Peter is such a well-meaning, earnest kid that Steve initially worries he’s buying into the public persona of Tony Stark, this unachievable hyper-masculine ideal that drinks all day, sleeps with beautiful women all night, and runs a company somewhere in-between. But once they actually get to talking, Steve realizes that Peter’s admiration feels much more personal.

“Mr. Stark changed my life,” he says simply, dropping his shoulder in a small shrug. “He wrote me a recommendation letter for MIT. He paid for my textbooks when my Aunt lost her job. He actually pays me, for this internship, which is so rare for undergraduates.” Peter looks up at Steve with starry eyes. Like, literally. Steve can see little anime stars lighting up his eyes. “He’s just an amazing guy. I think he really cares about all of us, you know?”

Though Steve doesn’t actually tell the kids that he had a considerably less charitable experience with Tony, he thinks they probably guess it from his expression and tight tone of voice. None of them seem to hold it against him, and MJ even says Tony can come off like a grade-A asshole if you never get the opportunity to really know him.

It’s deeply embarrassing to Steve that they also seem to figure out Tony’s romantic designs for him despite Steve only divulging about fifteen percent of the full story.

“How on earth did you guys guess that?” Steve asks, taking an indignant bite of a french fry.

“Because Tony’s the most shitty to people he really cares about,” MJ shrugs. Peter steals the pickle off her plate, wilts a little under her death glare, and takes a small bite before returning it.

“See — how does that make sense? How do you guys put up with that?”

“Because he gets better. You just have to give him, like, four tries to get it right,” Peter chimes in.

“I think his dad messed him up a little,” Ned shrugs, taking a giant bite of his burger. Both MJ and Peter kick him hard under the table and he nearly chokes. After taking several swallows of soda and having Steve thump him on the back a couple times, he says “okay, what, am I wrong?” and gets himself kicked again.

Steve truly has no idea what to make of all of it, though he will concede that Tony created something pretty special with Arc Technologies. The building, the people who work there, the mission of the company — it all builds into something kind of beautiful, something Steve feels pretty good about being a part of, even if his role is restricted to designing trendy looking tote bags.

**xiv.**

One day, about three weeks into his tenure at Arc, Peter approaches Steve while he’s in the studio. He’s working on painting a few mock-ups for some of the posters they’re going to distribute as prizes for a competition that’s a part of the youth initiative. It’s still surreal that Pepper, the interns, and the rest of the staff at Arc believe people would be happy to receive his art as a prize for anything, but Natasha keeps telling him (a little hypocritically, he might add) that he needs to be nicer to himself, so.

He’s midway through his second design of the morning when Peter materializes in the door leading out to the hallway, with MJ and Ned lurking behind him if the faint sound of whispering and shuffling is anything to go off of.

Steve glances up and smiles, taking one earbud out. “What’s up, Peter?”

As soon as Steve asks the question, Peter turns about fifteen different shades of red and the whispering behind him gets louder and more frantic. He opens his mouth, then closes it, looking vaguely like a gaping fish before holding up the giant binder clasped in his arms as if to explain.

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“I was wondering if you could… deliver this.”

“Deliver it?”

“Take it to the main offices. It’s, like, a five-minute bike ride away.”

“The main offices?” Steve asks, brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought we were the main offices.”

“Yeah, no, we are!” Peter scrambles, then starts tapping his sneaker against the hardwood a little manically. “But some of the R and D team works offsite. In a more. Scientific facility. And they really need this!” He holds up the binder again meaningfully.

“What is it?”

“Uhhh, it’s just… sch…ematics.”

“Schematics for what?”

“It’s pretty technical stuff,” Peter deflects, scratching the back of his head. “You know, jargon-y. I don’t think you’re interested.”

Steve sets down his brush and looks down at his person. He’s wearing a paint-spattered sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants he haphazardly plucked off the debris of his bedroom floor this morning. In fact, he’s 75% sure they’re actually Natasha’s. “I mean… is it really okay if I go over there looking like this?”

“It’ll be fine!” Peter insists.

“Maybe brush your hair, though!” Ned chimes in from the hallway.

At first, Steve doesn’t really think much of it, because these kids are weird. They use six different apps to communicate and they’re having completely different conversations on each of them. They also have hour-long discussions made entirely from meme references. He likes them, he appreciates their work, but they’re definitely weird. Assuming their strange proposal is just a symptom of being a nineteen year old in the digital age, he jots down directions from Peter, loads the binder into his messenger bag, and starts off on his bike to the address printed out for him.

His first indication that something might be off is that there’s only one car in the parking lot, and it’s.. not a practical car. It’s a cherry red convertible with, like, six McDonald’s wrappers strewn across the front seat and a tiny printed out photo of Freddie Mercury taped to the windshield. So that’s… weird. But Steve’s key card works on the door, and Peter’s instructions for how to navigate the inside of the building work out, so he keeps pressing forward.

When he gets to the basement, the elevators doors pull apart to the sound of the opening chords to AC/DC’s Back in Black. Steve frowns, double-checks his directions, and then shoots a quick text to Peter that says ‘if I get murdered down here MJ gets my pencil cup’. He steps out of the elevator and approaches the first door he sees, hovering carefully over the handle. He knocks, but he’s certain the sound is drowned out by the music. After a couple moment’s hesitation, he cuts his losses and tests the handle, finding it unlocked.

It’s probably fine if he just walks in, right? He isn’t wearing open-toe shoes. He isn’t eating. Those are the extent of the lab rules he remembers from middle school, but he’s following them both, so he makes the executive decision to just… go for it.

His initial reaction to the inside of the lab is ‘ah, organized chaos’. There is not a square centimeter of desk space that doesn’t have either piles and piles of notes, some kind of robot, a takeout bag, or a computer on top of it. There’s a whole bin of what looks like empty fire extinguishers in the corner, and there’s a glob of green sludge hanging out the side of the biohazard waste bin. It looks… sentient.

At the center of it all is Tony Stark.

He has his back turned to Steve and seems completely focused on the hunk of red and gold metal in front of him, something Steve doesn’t even want to try and guess the purpose of. He’s also headbanging pretty hard to the music, and, at one point, pauses his scientific exploits to play a little air guitar.

“Sir?” says a voice from the ceiling that makes Steve start.

“What’s up, J?”

“You appear to have a visitor.”

Tony whips around so fast he nearly falls out of his chair, glasses slipping abruptly down the bridge of his nose. Steve internally notes that this is the first time he’s seen him in something other than a suit — the Black Sabbath t-shirt and normal person jeans cut a figure that’s much less intimidating, though, unfortunately, no less attractive. Tony doesn’t have the reaction to seeing him that Steve might expect: his eyes widen in momentary surprise, then he squints suspiciously and leans back in his stool.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How long has it been since I last slept?”

“Twenty-six hours, sir. Not even close to your record. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think I’m hallucinating Steve,” Tony pauses and shoves his glasses back up his nose, staring harder at Steve like somehow that’ll make him disappear. “And it’s a really intense hallucination. He looks so real.”

“Have you tried initiating physical contact, Sir?”

“Ah, well,” the corner of Tony’s mouth curves up into a wry, self-deprecating smile. Steve feels his heart thump a little louder in his chest. “Hallucination or not, I don’t think he’d like that very much.”

 _So he's a giant dork_ , Steve thinks, resolutely ignoring the blush that rises on his cheeks.

**xv.**

They get burgers at a homey little diner about 15 minutes away from the research facility. It has a classic, red leather kind of aesthetic that’s endlessly charming to Steve, and the booths are spacious enough that he can sit cross-legged with his knees tucked up against him and still have room to spare. The burgers are also fantastic.

Tony flirts shamelessly with the waitstaff and stuffs a hundred into the tip jar when he thinks Steve isn’t looking. About midway through the meal, an ancient old lady manager comes out from the back with the express purpose of force-feeding him an extra slice of pie and pinching his cheeks. He begs her to marry him. She slaps him over the head with a menu.

It’s... weird. Or at least it should be, because this man was Steve’s sworn enemy mere months ago. He can’t deny it, though — even if his uncharitable feelings towards Tony Stark haven’t entirely dissipated, this encounter only feeds Steve’s growing curiosity about the man so many people at Arc seem to know, the man Steve doesn’t actually think he’s ever met.

“How do you have time for this?” Steve asks, dipping a french fry into Tony’s shake and taking a delicate bite off the tip.

Tony eyes him curiously. There’s something so focused and attentive about him today, like for the first time since they’ve met he’s actually 100% present for a conversation. It takes Steve a while to realize that it’s the only time they’ve ever spoken while Tony’s completely sober.

“I make time,” he shrugs, picking at a little piece of fallen lettuce, “the weapons, that’s — that’s Obie’s thing, I think. I can do it and I’m good at it because I’m good at everything, but I don’t really… like it.”

“Then why don’t you quit?” Steve asks, wondering if that’s overly blunt a split-second too late.

Tony doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, the corner of his mouth tips up into an amused little smile. “Because it’s my company. If I don’t like it I should be able to change it.”

“Is that what Arc Technologies is? You trying to change it?”

Tony shrugs, eyes placid and mysterious as he takes a long, suspenseful sip from his milkshake.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I do,” Steve concedes, leaning back in the booth and staring meaningfully at Tony. “I recently figured out that’s a better strategy than assuming things.”

Tony doesn’t look up, but his smile widens as he pulls a fry through a stray glob of ketchup. “How’d you even end up at Arc inthe first place?”

“Pepper Potts approached me.”

Tony makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. “God. Of course she did.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing important,” Tony shrugs, and this time he does look up from his food, with eyes so clear and so honest that Steve actually believes him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of you before— you’re actually pretty perfect for the position.”

“Maybe because the last time we spoke I called you a slutty snob.”

“And then I sent you a pretty embarrassing apology hologram.”

“It wasn’t that embarrassing,” Steve says carefully, eyes flicking up to meet Tony’s. Steve knows it’s the softest he’s ever sounded or looked when addressing him, and Tony looks surprised at the treatment, so, naturally, Steve can’t help but choose this moment to blurt out, “Did you tell Rhodes that Natasha had real feelings for him? That she’s in California right now?”

“I didn’t know that,” Tony rubs the back of his neck, “—that she was in town, I mean. Since when?”

“Four months ago.”

“For how long?”

“Forever. She accepted a job opening down here. We’re looking for a fourth person to sign the lease for fall.”

Tony is silent for a few moments, then he leans forward and braces his elbows on the table, blinking curiously at Steve. “Rhodes knows she’s here. He stalks her on social media for half an hour every morning. If he hasn’t done anything about it on his own, then should I really interfere again? Would she even take him back?”

These are, unfortunately, reasonable and legitimate questions, which is deeply damaging to Steve’s Hate Tony Stark At All Costs strategy. He abruptly realizes he’s started glaring at Tony again, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind, matching the expression with a mild smile of his own. Steve narrows his eyes.

“If he asks me—“ Tony starts, and something gentler, more genuine slips into his voice. “If he asks me, I’ll tell him to go for it. I’ll tell him I was wrong. I swear. But only if he asks.”

And that’s — that’s actually probably the most mature thing to do, so Steve doesn’t have a retort. He just leans back in the booth and looks down at the ruins of his food, wondering why on earth his palms feel so clammy? The diner has A/C, so maybe it’s the leather. Yeah. Probably the leather.

Tony takes one last noisy sip of his milkshake, and they both agree it's time to head back to the research facility. On the way out, Tony stuffs another fifty into the tip jar in a way he probably thinks is discreet, but there are three waitresses swooning in Steve’s periphery that would suggest otherwise. They walk out to the car in awkward, deafening silence, and while the ride back is filled in with a couple AC/DC tracks, the second Tony pulls up next Steve’s bike in the lot things start to get weird again.

“Do you… need a ride back to the office?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. “It’s a, um. Ten-minute bike ride, so. Probably like a 2-minute car ride, and that would be kind of weird.”

“Right, yeah,” Tony says back awkwardly, looking like he’s actively suppressing the urge to run away screaming. “Cool. I just thought— you know, the sun.”

Steve looks down at his lap and purses his lips against a smile. “The sun?”

“Yeah, yeah the sun. Like, dehydration. I knew a guy who dehydrated once. Not in California, in Massachusetts. It was pretty gross. His lips got all white and dry and weird.”

Steve presses the back of his hand to his mouth to hold in laughter and graciously decides to cut the conversation short by swinging open Tony’s passenger door. He turns around to say goodbye, but Tony cuts him off, features twisting into something right on the edge helpless. It’s — not a terrible look on him, Steve surmises.

“You’ve seen me talk to other people, right? Like, you know I’m usually better at this?”

“I don’t think you’re doing so bad.”

“But you have, like, a really low bar for me. Embarrassingly low. A limbo stick for mice.”

Steve shakes his head, still smiling as he turns around. “I’ll see you around, Tony.”

And if Steve laughs when Tony yells “Stay hydrated!” at his retreating figure, well. No one ever has to know.

**xvii.**

Steve and Tony get caught in a series of increasingly elaborate parent traps in the duration of the three and a half weeks, and at one point Steve is certain that Peter, MJ, Ned, Pepper, and Linda from Accounting are all in on it. After the run in at the research facility, he and Tony get:

 

 

 

> 1\. Locked in the break room alone for an hour and a half in the name of a “safety drill”.

Peter and Pepper do not cross-reference their scripts, so announcements for two different emergency types are made — both active shooter and earthquake. Tony looks so embarrassed that he keeps eyeing the window, like maybe the best option would be to fling himself out of it. Steve narrowly prevents this by suggesting a game of paper football, which is a good idea right up until the moment he realizes Tony is a lying cheating cheater.

“Hello,” Steve laughs, holding up the most intricately folded, strangely shaped paper football he has ever seen in his life. “What the hell is this?”

“You didn’t say there were rules!” Tony insists, leaning his head against the kitchen cupboards and grinning. “I just made a couple adjustments to the design!”

Tony wins, like, six times before Steve gets fed up and throws the paper football at his face, actually managing to give him a paper cut above his eyebrow. When MJ comes to tell them the drill is over, she sees Steve holding a damp paper towel to Tony’s forehead as they both converse in low, amused voices. She watches them for a couple seconds, then backs away from the door with a self-satisfied smirk.

 

 

 

> 2\. Sent a memo for a ‘team building retreat’ in the company gym, though they happen to be the only two staff members to actually show up.

They only hover around each other awkwardly for a few minutes this time, suddenly finding their footing in an easy back and forth about the ’suggested exercises’ Pepper has left for them.

“I don’t think we should do trust falls,” Tony says, bouncing up and down on an exercise ball. “I feel like I’m at a disadvantage.”

“And why is that, exactly?”

“Because I already fell for you once this year, and it was very, very painful.”

Steve flips him off, but the gesture probably doesn’t seem particularly threatening since he can’t help the laughter that rises in him, shoulders shaking with it. Tony winks at him then promptly loses his balance on the exercise ball and falls on his face. That only makes Steve laugh more.

 

 

 

> 3\. Assigned to work on a “collaborative project”, which involves putting together weird Swedish furniture for the new conference room.

Steve puts up a little resistance for this one, because _come on_ , but apparently the combination of Steve’s artistic vision and Tony’s builders’ expertise makes them the optimal pair for the job. Steve doesn’t buy it for a second, but it’s useless to argue, and spending a couple hours goofing off with Tony in the conference room isn’t actually the worst way he could be spending his afternoon.

“Did you really graduate from MIT when you were fifteen?”

“Yeah, because all the textbooks weren’t written in _Swedish_. Aren’t artists supposed to know all the European languages?”

“Je ne connais que le français,” Steve says idly, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his skinny jeans and watching Tony very earnestly try to shove a round piece into a star-shaped hole. Tony has stripped off his button-down and is maneuvering large pieces of furniture in a fitted black tank top that leaves very little to the imagination. Over the last half hour, a light sheen of sweat appeared along the dips of his biceps.

Steve would help, but he just thinks he’s doing a better job from the supervision side of things. He doesn't want to interfere with Tony's process. Mechanics can get so _touchy._

 

After the fourth trap — which is, admittedly, one of the weaker ones, Peter just shoves Tony into the studio and closes the door behind him — Steve and Tony start hanging out voluntarily. Steve feels kind of guilty about it and conceals it from Natasha as best he can, but after fighting through the three truly awful protective layers of Tony’s personality, Steve thinks he’s entitled to enjoy this side of him — kind, whip-smart, and pretty endearingly starry-eyed about clean energy.

So they’re in each others’ workspaces three days a week, they get lunch at the diner at least as often, and they play paper football in the break room even though Steve knows he’s gonna lose. Their time together is carefully constrained to work hours only, because as long as it’s on the clock or during a lull in the day, Steve can say firmly that it’s not a date. He is not dating Tony Stark. And he definitely, 100% doesn’t want to be.

(Maybe 76%).

(Probably best to make it an even 50%).

**xviii.**

“There’s something wrong with my face. Pepper, what is wrong with my face? Is it the hair? Is it my nose? Does my nose look weirdly swollen to you?”

Steve tucks his smile against his shoulder and purses his lips. For the past twelve minutes, Tony and Pepper have been hovering outside the door to the studio, talking as if it’s a 6-inch concrete barrier obstructing their voices rather than a flimsy wooden door.

Well. Pepper probably knows exactly what she’s doing. Tony, on the other hand, remains as oblivious as he’s always been.

“There is nothing wrong with your face,” Pepper intones patiently. “You’re stalling because you’re nervous.”

“What if he’s allergic to the flowers? Fuck, did we check his allergy list for flowers?”

“We checked the list. The flowers in your hand are made of paper, Tony.”

At one point, Steve considered abiding by the instructions of his better angels, putting his earphones in, and sparing Tony a fraction of the humiliation. And then he pondered the last time he had stealthily eavesdropped on one of Tony’s conversations, and quickly decided that this was the universe granting him some kind of karmic retribution.

“I feel like the tie looks really stupid. Let’s take off the tie.”

“Okay, hold still and I’ll take off the tie.”

Tony has taken off and re-knotted the tie twice already.

“I just— what am I even going to say?”

“Just be yourself.”

“No — no that is the worst possible plan. He really, really did not like it the last time I ‘was myself’. Maybe this was a terrible idea — maybe I… maybe I only got one shot and I blew it. Maybe I should just leave.”

Steve freezes, narrowing his eyes. It is in this moment that he realizes he’s — he’s going to say yes. He’s going to say yes, even though Rhodes still hasn’t approached Natasha for a reconciliation. He’s going to say yes, even though he goes back to New York in a week and he has no idea what Tony’s plans are. He’s going to say yes, even though he told Tony mere months ago that he was the last person on earth he’d ever make this concession to.

He’s going to say yes. But he can’t actually do that unless Tony gets it together enough to ask. Steve turns around and glares at the wall. _You idiot. Open the door._

“Anthony, if you put me through this for literally no reason, I’ll actually stab you. I’ll take off my stiletto and stab you right now, don’t think I won’t.”

“What if he says no?”

“Then he says no. You get over him eventually. Life moves on.”

Steve can practically hear the gears in Tony’s mind turning, weighing the emotional losses and gains of the moment. _Be irrational_ , Steve silently wills him.

“Okay,” Tony says, and there’s a slight shuffling noise. “Okay, I’m going to do it. —Thanks, Pep. Sorry. I love you.”

“Love you too. Good luck.”

Steve listens to the fading sounds of Pepper’s heels against the hardwood. His heart beats a little faster in his chest, and he absently feels around his pocket for his inhaler. Tony knocks on the door. Steve fumbles a little while opening it.

“Hey,” he says, flushed and breathless.

“Hey,” Tony says back, offering him a soft, nervous smile.

There is an agonizing moment of silence.

“Okay,” Tony looks down like he’s steeling himself, readjusting his grip on the bouquet of paper flowers clasped in his hand. Steve barely resists the urge to start tapping his toe against the floor impatiently. “Steve — I… I was wondering, if maybe you’d want to have… dinner. Not at the diner. And not directly after work. Like, we’d both leave work, and then meet up a couple hours later. After showering. And getting.. changed. I mean, I guess you don’t actually have to change, whatever you do between the end of work and 8pm is none of my business, but—“

“Tony,” Steve interjects carefully.

Tony barrels forward. “—and, like, I’m not saying change because I don’t like your clothes. Your clothes are great. Love your clothes. And you always smell good, so I guess you don’t need to shower either. But maybe you smell good because you shower so much. Yeah. That’s probably—“

“Tony,” Steve interrupts, a little more purposeful this time. Tony falls silent, looks like he’s maybe crushing the paper flowers in his rapidly tightening grip. “I think I’d li—“

Steve is abruptly cut off by the sound of Peter Parker, bounding vigorously up the staircase. He loses his balance at the top step and crashes into Tony’s back, nearly sending them both toppling over. There’s more clattering and Steve catches sight of Ned and MJ running up behind him, strange expressions on their faces.

“Hey, guys,” Steve starts gently, glancing away from Tony, who’s still staring at him with rapt attention, and completely ignoring Peter, who’s hanging off his suit jacket like an overenthusiastic octopus. “This isn’t really a good—“

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” MJ says sharply, arms folded over her chest. She doesn’t just look angry, she also looks — scared. Hurt.

Steve’s brow furrows.

“It’s— it’s been in my bag, I keep it on silent during the workday. What’s going on, guys? Who’s been calling?”

Nobody answers for a second. Tony’s looking at Peter now, taking his arm in a solid, comforting grip. MJ and Ned are looking at their shoes. Dread settles into the pit of Steve’s stomach.

“Guys. Who has been calling?”

“Mount Sinai Hospital,” Peter says finally, eyes downcast.

Steve’s mind goes quickly and carefully blank.

**xix.**

Tony lends Steve the private jet. Any other time Steve would resist, but today he just hands over the key to his apartment and lets Tony usher him into a car with a course set for the tarmac. Tony carefully gets into the backseat next to Steve, keeps glancing at him like he expects Steve to kick him out.

Steve doesn’t. He’s texting Sam, trying to get ahold of him. They’re three hours ahead in New York, so Sam should be finishing his shift any minute now. He’s the closest to Mount Sinai — he needs to, he needs to go—

“Steve,” Tony says, voice firm but gentle. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Steve’s throat constricts and he’s afraid he won’t be able to say anything without crying. It takes a couple seconds to find his voice.

“It’s Bucky. He— he’s in the hospital, he had some kind of… He was in a fight, I think, with Brock. Natasha says he’s been giving him a hard time for a while now. Following him home from work, asking where I’ve been, who I’m—” Steve cuts himself off, shakes his head and looks out the window. “He didn’t think he could tell me. Natasha says he thought if he told me, I’d give up this job and come home.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Tony’s voice is so gentle. Kind. Steve wants to sink into it, feel something than the overwhelming dread and worry tightening his chest.

“He’s hurt pretty bad. Broken arm and a head injury. Needed stitches in a couple places. They’re keeping him overnight for observation. We’ve got another friend, Thor — he says Brock and a couple other idiots keep hovering outside the hospital. They’ve tried to call the cops on him but Brock has connections inside the police department, and he’s worked private security for city council member Alexander Pierce, so no one cares. If I had been there—“

“This isn’t your fault,” Tony insists, looking at Steve with those wide, dark eyes. “Come on, Steve, how could this be your fault?”

Steve shakes his head once, firm and resolved. “I could’ve prevented it. I should never have left.”

They don’t say anything for the rest of the car ride, but Tony reaches over and tentatively takes his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. Steve doesn’t look at him, but silently returns the pressure.

**xx.**

When Steve and Natasha touch down on Tony Stark’s private tarmac, a car is waiting to take them to Mount Sinai.

“If Brock is outside when we get there,” Steve starts carefully, fingers curling into fists at his side.

“I know,” Natasha says, just casual enough to be absolutely terrifying.

It never comes to that, though. Brock is gone, and so are his friends, at least for the moment. Steve and Natasha lie shamelessly to the woman at the front desk - Steve says he’s Bucky’s brother and Natasha says she’s his fiancé.

“His fiancé has already gone back,” the receptionist tells her, a little cooly.

Natasha doesn’t even flinch. “He’s still deciding between us. I guess you could consider us all engaged, at least for now.”

The tilt of her brow just begs the woman to question her ludicrous tale.

“Fine,” the receptionist heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Room 609. Visiting hours are over at nine.”

Sam apparently received at least one of Steve’s forty-three messages, because he’s already in the room, lying in Bucky’s bed. Bucky’s face is tucked into his shoulder and his hands are curled into Sam’s sweater. He appears to be dozing peacefully, though Sam’s eyes are puffy like he’s been crying.

“How is he?” Steve mouths, sinking into the chair up against his bedside and reaching to stroke gingerly over Bucky’s knuckles. His face is a little cut up and there’s bruising around his collar and his chest. His arm is in a sling. Steve's heart aches for him.

“He’ll be okay,” Sam says in a low, quiet voice. He strokes Bucky’s hair and Bucky burrows further into his shoulder, shifting in his sleep. “He’s shaken up and he’s already worried about the hospital bills, but he’ll be okay.”

The bed isn’t big enough for all of them to climb into at once, but Natasha drags another chair into the room and they sit as close as they possibly can. Natasha gently taking hold of the edge of the blanket curled around Bucky’s legs, and Steve settling his hand on top of Bucky’s cast.

Bucky wakes up 15 minutes before visiting hours are over. When he sees Steve, he breaks out into a slow, stupid grin.

“Missed you,” he says quietly, eyelids weighed down by exhaustion and pain meds. “Love you.”

Steve’s eyes feel wet and he sniffles pathetically, hastily wiping at them with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Missed you too, Buck.”

**xxi.**

Sam spends most of the day on the phone with Hopkins, trying to coordinate a way to finish his fellowship remotely. Natasha sets up a temporary arrangement where she can work out of her old office during the day, and Steve picks up a shift bartending at The Silverado at night, so they trade off on Bucky-watch.

Brock doesn’t come back. Steve checks outside every hour for him, but he never shows. Steve calls Natasha at work and asks her to look into it, stalk him on social media, see if they can dredge up any information about where he is. Meanwhile, he keeps Bucky company, waiting on him like the absolute baby he becomes when he gets even the slightest bit sick.

“Steve. Stevie. Can you get me another jello from the cafeteria?”

“You have a laparoscopic surgery in three hours. You’re not supposed to eat anything.”

“Pffft. They’re not serious about that.”

“They’re absolutely serious about that, dipshit. They don’t want you to vomit while you’re under anesthesia.”

“Yeah,” Bucky shifts, adjusting his place amongst the absolute mountain of pillows crowding his bed, “but, like, its jello right? It would just slide right out.”

Steve flashes him an expression that adequately conveys the utter disgust he feels at having to hear that, and throws a wadded up napkin at Bucky’s face. Bucky goes on another spiel about how he should be treated gently because he’s injured.

Mrs. Barnes and Becca turn up closer to the evening, armed with Kugel and Babka. Steve steps out for a moment and gives them a little privacy, but not before getting his cheeks squeezed by Mrs. Barnes and his ass slapped by Becca. They try to force-feed him, but he gracefully fends them off upon seeing Bucky’s intense evil eye. He’s still fasting, and Steve knows he’s got a thing about not getting first crack at his mom’s food.

He gets a call from Natasha while he’s sketching in the waiting room.

“They arrested Brock.”

“They _what_?”

“They arrested Brock. I called my contacts in the city council and the commissioner’s office - the most I can find out is that someone went over the councilman’s head to the mayor, called in a personal favor. He’s being held in the 75th right now, one of the only Brooklyn precincts he doesn’t have friends in.”

“Oh my god,” Steve says quietly, “I mean— oh my god? Who would do that? Who do we know in the fucking mayor’s office?”

“ _I_ don’t know anyone.”

There’s something meaningful, intentional about Natasha’s voice. Like she’s suggesting Steve’s got the answe somehow. He just doesn’t have the energy for her riddles today.

“Okay. Shit. I’m gonna go tell Bucky.”

Natasha hums in agreement and Steve sits back in his chair. Who does he know in the mayor’s office? Who does he know who could request a personal audience with the mayor of New York and actually get it? And then, for a moment he thinks—

—but no. Right? No way.

**xxii.**

And then several other things happen, and Steve begins to suspect _yes. Yes way._

First, the finest defense attorney in the tri-state area turns up outside Bucky’s hospital room. Her name is Hope van Dyne and she is wearing a pantsuit that looks like it came straight from a Bergdorf’s window display. She says she’s there to help Bucky press charges against Brock Rumlow for aggravated assault. She also says her services have been completely paid for, though she refuses to divulge by who. Steve looks up where she graduated from: Harvard Law, the same year Pepper graduated Harvard Business.

Second, every last one of Bucky’s hospital bills gets paid, right down to the prescription for the extra-power pain meds their crappy health insurance won’t cover. When he interrogates the billing department, they insist over and over it was a strictly anonymous source.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Steve says, arms folded over his chest. “Just— blink twice, if I’m right. It was Tony Stark.”

The old lady from billing remains completely impassable. “The donation was made anonymously.”

“Stark Industries. The payment came from Stark Industries. Pepper Potts. James Rhodes. Peter Parker.”

“Young man,” she looks down and starts going through the mail with a Garfield-themed letter opener. “I suggest you get out of here before I call security.”

Even though everyone refuses to give him direct confirmation, it’s so infuriatingly obvious that it can’t be the work of anyone but Tony. It reeks of his particular brand of benevolent yet emotionally-stunted idiocy.

Even as Steve possesses this information, he can’t exactly do anything about it. Tony’s twitter says he’ll be in Malibu for the next week and a half, and Steve has to move his stuff and Sam’s stuff back into the apartment now that the subletters’ leases are up. He also has to review applications for their new fourth roommate, pick up new jobs for the fall, and keep in touch with MJ while she uploads the last of their work into the serves at Arc.

One night, coming home to a quiet apartment after a 6 hour shift at the bar, he sits down in front of his laptop to write an email. He tries to make it minimally pathetic, but it’s three AM and he’s feeling emotionally vulnerable and he listened to AC/DC on the Subway ride home. His original draft is about 6 paragraphs and he reads over it, instantly horrified, and abruptly erases everything.

He tries again.

 

 

 

 

> Dear Tony,
> 
> I know it’s you doing all of this. If you think you’re being even remotely subtle, you’re an idiot. Thank you. I will never forget everything you’ve done for us, we definitely owe you.
> 
> I hope everything is going well at Arc. Say hi to Peter, MJ, and Ned for me. I miss them. Maybe the next time you’re in the city, we can meet up.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Steve

 

Steve reads it four times before biting down on his nerves and sending it.

He tries his hardest not to think about it in the following hours. If he refreshes his inboxes six times when he wakes up the next morning, that’s nobody else’s business.

**xxiv.**

“Ow! Ow, Bucky, that is my hair.”

“Stop poking me with your ribs!”

“That’s called _breathing_ , numbskull.”

Steve, Sam, and Bucky are currently wedged between the tiny hallway crawlspace between the apartment entryway and the rest of their bedrooms. Steve is pretty tiny, so he doesn’t have to contort too much to fit and fit comfortably. Bucky and Sam, on the other hand…

“If you guys don’t shut up we’re not gonna be able to hear anything,” Steve hisses, even though he really, really, really should’ve learned his lesson about eavesdropping by this point.

But when James Rhodes turns up on the apartment doorstep completely out of the blue at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, Steve feels he’s entitled to a little more information.

Bucky and Sam fall quiet. Steve inclines his head forward, trying to make out snatches of the passionate conversation that has been transpiring for the past eighteen minutes.

Well. Passionate on Rhodes’ part. Natasha is completely impassable.

“So that’s your full explanation then? You got scared that I was more interested than you were, so you ran away?”

Natasha delivers the remark with the tone one might use when commenting on the stock market, the inconvenience of road traffic, or Bucky’s mildly smelly gym socks.

“Ummm… yes. Yeah, that’s— I know that’s not good enough. And I’d never dream of asking for a second chance, I just—“

“What are you doing here, then? If you’re not asking for a second chance?”

“I’m apologizing,” Rhodes presses, and Steve thinks, with a little smugness, that Natasha might have finally met her match, as far as stubbornness goes. “I’m explaining. If you’re interested in hearing it. If not, I’m happy to leave you be.”

There’s a drawn out silence before Natasha, in a cautiously interested voice, says, “…continue.”

So Rhodes does his spiel. Natasha attacks his logic, his choices, his life, and his friends. Rhodes gives a second spiel. His audience seems no less hostile.

The funniest thing about it is that Natasha wouldn’t be holding him this long if she didn’t intend on forgiving him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t at all be worth the effort.

Still, she makes James Rhodes stand in the sweltering late August heat for another hour and a half. Bucky eventually leaves the crawlspace, grumbling about how everyone over 25 has cooties, and Sam has to leave, too, to get ready for work.

Steve, however, has absolutely nothing better to do, not for this afternoon. So he stays, reads articles on his phone, refreshes his email, and listens to Natasha put a military officer through the kind of torture that might make the villains at Guantanamo shiver.

As the conversation begins to peter out, Natasha’s retorts getting weaker and weaker, a small, exhausted silence descends between them.

“You about done, Romanoff?” Rhodes asks, and it sounds like he’s smiling.

Steve peeks around the corner of the crawlspace and sees Rhodes leaning against the frame of the doorway, looking tired but still managing this silly little fond expression, directed at Natasha’s still impassable glare.

She lets him hang for one, two, three more seconds, then she slowly wraps her arms around his neck, presses up against his likely disgusting sweaty form, and kisses the life out of him.

Steve presses his smile against the back of his hand.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she says quietly, letting a little warmth seep into her voice.

“I know,” Rhodes says back and kisses her nose.

Steve is so happy for them that he forgets to refresh his email for the next two and a half hours.

**xxv.**

Life kind of moves on. Kind of.

Steve gets a job at an art gallery in Brooklyn. Rhodes' Instagram slowly fills up with embarrassingly couple-y pictures of Natasha. Bucky, to everyone’s shock, stops serial dating, and starts shooting more and more longing looks at Sam. Steve knows they’re going to have to have a conversation about that eventually, but it’s about all the relationship drama he can take for the rest of this year.

The Arc Technologies Youth Initiative starts advertising. The first time Steve sees a bus go by with his art on it, he calls Sam and they both cry. He gets a postcard from Peter and Ned from MIT. He arranges a lunch with MJ, for when she gets back into Queens.

Tony doesn’t respond to his email, but he has a pretty good excuse as to why. He and Sam are watching the news when, seemingly out of nowhere, they start rolling footage of a Stark Industries press conference.

Steve’s heart thumps pathetically in his chest at the sight of Tony, standing with his hands braced at the edge of a podium, eyes wide and alert. He looks completely sober, and when he speaks, it’s with a calm, authoritative voice.

“Stark Industries will no longer be manufacturing weapons. From this day forth, all our resources will be devoted to clean energy technology.”

Pepper sends next to him in a well-pressed pantsuit, cherry red lips curved into a small, smug smile. When Tony finishes his speech and disappears behind a huge navy curtain, she leans down to the mic and says “no further questions” with a ridiculously pleased glimmer in her eye.

Sam is just sitting there with his mouth open, a spoonful of cereal frozen halfway between his bowl and his mouth. He looks at Steve with raised eyebrows, “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” Steve agrees, and hugs a pillow to his chest.

Objectively, Steve is happy for Tony. It seems like something he’s wanted to do for a really long time, and the fact that the company will be moving away from war profiteering and moving towards fixing global warming is good for literally everyone on the planet. The fact that Tony’s going to be doing this on his own, rebranding an entire company, reorganizing an entire conglomerate, all in the name of making positive change, it’s…

Incredible, is the only word that comes to mind.

But _subjectively_ , Steve can’t help but think: well. That’s the end of that, then. Because Tony’s got more responsibilities than ever before, and he can’t possibly have time to grab a coffee with the little guy from Brooklyn who rejected him that one time and also skipped out at the end of a very lucrative internship with his company.

November’s probably a little too early to be making a Resolutions list, but Steve’s pretty eager to leave most of the past 10 months behind.

**Goals for the New Year:**

  * _Get work into_ gallery _, no matter the cost_
  * _Expand Portfolio_
    * Finally _do_ portrait _of mom_
  * _Fix structural problem in_ apartment
  * _Eat healthier — no more 3 am McDonald's!!_
  * _Parent Trap Sam and Bucky (ask MJ for tips?)_
  * _Think about Tony less_



**xxvii.**

As time inches into December, Steve finds he’s actually not doing too bad with the last one. As he makes his way home from a long shift at the gallery— nose red, hands frozen, goosebumps all over from the frigid New York air seeping under his coat — he’s not thinking about Tony at all. He’s mostly thinking about dinner, and how he really regrets promising himself no more McDonald's.

There’s a hunched-over, dark-haired figure sitting on their stoop, and Steve sighs, reasoning that it’s Bucky, who must’ve lost his key for the fourth time that month. Possibly the fifth, if they count that time he texted everyone in a panic only to, one whole hour later, realize it was in his pocket all along.

“Seriously, Buck,” Steve sighs, tugging his beanie off his head and shoving it into his pocket. He gropes around in his bag for his own keys, head ducked as he approaches, “get a keychain. A lanyard. You know Sam will make you a lanyard, stop making the rest of us suffer because you’re too embarrassed to—“

“—Hey, Steve.”

Steve slows to a stop, eyes whipping up at the sound of that voice.

 _Tony Stark_.

And he looks unreal. He’s wearing a deep red pea coat and a scarf of the same color, and Steve can make out the lines of an immaculate tuxedo underneath. He looks like he just came from the Golden Globes. And Steve— Steve looks like he just came from a six-hour shift at work where he only narrowly avoided spilling coffee on himself and falling asleep on the subway.

Even still, the mere sight of him makes warmth bloom at the center of Steve’s chest.

“Hey,” he breathes, mouth tipping into a small, soft smile. Tony returns it, but a million times brighter and better.

They spend an awkward amount of time looking at each other like that, a foot of space between them, neither really sure what to say, until Steve — tired of fearing rejection, of second-guessing intentions, of holding back — moves forward and throws his arms around Tony’s neck in a hug. Tony hugs him back immediately, hands settling at the small of Steve's back. He smells like coffee and expensive aftershave.

Then Steve remembers several things at once, and steps back, fixing Tony with an accusatory glare and folding his arms in front of his chest so he remembers to keep his hands to himself.

“You didn’t reply to my email.”

“ _This_ is me replying to your email,” Tony insists, and Steve is so hopelessly enamored by the fact that this man has no idea how to do anything halfway.

“But you haven’t said anything,” Steve says faux-casual as supplies his keys, brushes past Tony, and bounds up the two stairs on the stoop, settling onto the welcome mat and brushing off his sneakers. “Do you want to come inside?”

“I—“ Tony hesitates, eye flicking momentarily away from Steve, “I don’t know if I… should. Until we know how this conversation ends.”

Steve has put the key in the lock, but he doesn’t twist it, hand falling away from the handle. Tony is standing on the first step, too close for Steve to maintain a normal heart rate, and too far for what Steve would really rather be doing right now.

“So,” Steve says, "are we having the conversation now, or did you wanna just wait out here while I eat dinner and change?”

“You distracted me,” Tony accuses, eyes glimmering with amusement.

“I’m not distracting you now.”

His eyes flick briefly to Steve’s mouth, then back up again. “That’s debatable.”

Heat rises on Steve’s cheeks, but he refuses to be deterred, even as he’s fighting a smile. “You had a point, I believe?”

“I did. I do,” Tony concedes quietly, stuffs his hands in his pockets and wets his lips. “Okay. I swear to god, Steve, I really had every intention of leaving you alone. I just wanted— wanted to do something for you, to make up for how I acted when we first met, and to thank you for being my friend over the summer. And then I got your email, and I…” He pauses, glancing up at Steve with the most heartbreakingly hopeful eyes. “I thought maybe—… I mean if I’m wrong, it’s fine. But if I'm not, then you have to know, Steve — I still have... feelings for you. Even more feelings than before, if that's possible, which I guess it is.”

Steve’s heart feels like it literally stops, and it has nothing to do with his arrhythmia.

“I think you’re smart and talented and sexy as hell. I think I like every single part of you — even the parts that kick my ass. I think it was so fucking worth it to get my heart broken by you. I’d do it again. I’d do it over and over and over, if it just meant getting to be around you. I think I’m starting to fall in—“

He doesn’t wait for Tony to finish.

One second he’s standing on the stoop and the next he’s launched himself at Tony— wrapped his arms around Tony’s shoulders, wrapped his legs around Tony’s waist. Tony must see it coming because he’s already smiling when their mouths come together. His lips are warm and chapped, and Steve’s brain goes offline the second Tony’s hands move down his back, gliding down his body to settle beneath his legs. Steve faintly thinks that he can’t even feel the cold right now, he can’t even remember being anything but warm.

They kiss like that for god knows how long, but the second Tony pulls away it’s still too soon.

“Fuck,” Tony says breathlessly, pressing his forehead against Steve’s, “fuck, okay, hold on— I’m trying to do this thing where I make responsible decisions at least 85% of the time, or at least for the things that matter, and you— I think you, really, really matter, so I don’t want to fuck this up, I don’t want to do this period if you’re not—“

“Tony.”

“Right, yeah, okay,” Tony adjusts his grip around Steve’s legs and looks at him with soft, entreating eyes. “I don’t want you to do this because you think you owe me something. It’s actually probably my fault that Brock got so obsessed with you. He knew I was into you and he wanted to get back at me and you were too smart for it, so he did all that fucked up shit to Bucky. If you think about it I’m really just making good on a loose end I left hanging, like, three years ago, and I don’t want you to think—“

“—It’s not your fault,” Steve interrupts, frowning again. He pushes his fingers into the softly curling hair at Tony’s nape, tugging insistently, “it’s not. But anyways, that doesn’t matter. I like you, too.”

“Really?” Tony raises an eyebrow, “‘Cause it kind of seemed like you didn’t for a minute there.”

“A guy’s not allowed to change his mind?”

Tony laughs a little, then the light in his eyes dims, replaced with a kind of stormy doubt that Steve wants to banish to the depths of hell forever and ever. “I’m kind of a fuck-up, Steve,” he starts, and Steve’s grip around his neck tightens protectively. “The company is— it’s a mess, I’m still figuring everything out. I’m gonna lose so much money, transitioning completely like I have been. I might have to sell the tower, the lab, I might fail completely—“

Steve kisses him again. Tony gives into it instantly, pulling him impossibly closer, making a little sighing sound as Steve continues to pull at his hair. Steve had a point — a whole follow-up speech — but they both lose track of themselves, sinking into each other and into this sharply sweet feeling of _finally_. At some point Tony lets Steve down, only to push him up against the closed door, wrap his arms securely around Steve’s narrow waist.

Steve leans away, then, but can’t resist pressing a soft closed-mouth kiss to the corner of Tony’s mouth. “You think I give a damn about the tower, Tony?”

“Oh… no?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, holding the ends of Tony’s suit jacket to keep him close. “No. I only give a damn about you.”

The effect is immediate. Tony breaks out into a grin, one so wide he immediately tries to cover it up by smirking. “That’s real romantic,” he drawls, leaning back in.

Steve doesn’t need to tell him to shut up this time. He just tugs him down, presses their lips together, and makes him.

 

 

**Brief Epilogue (Tony's POV):**

When Tony fumbles into the penthouse after the Longest Day Of Meetings In The History Of Ever, he’s tired, hungry, and cranky from having to stare at ugly old people the entire day. He just wants to change into something comfortable and eat approximately five cheeseburgers.

“Jarvis?” he says, loosening his tie and shrugging off his suit jacket. He drops them on the floor, even though he knows Pepper will give him judgey eyes for it the next morning. “Will you order five— nah, let’s do six— six cheeseburgers and also a milkshake?”

“Of course, Sir. Would you also like me to order something for Mr. Rogers?”

Tony freezes, a slow smile spreading over his features. “Steve’s here?”

“He’s fallen asleep in the bedroom, Sir. I believe he was waiting for you.”

“We didn’t have a date, did we?”

“I don’t believe so. I think he just wanted to surprise you.”

Tony’s grin widens as he undoes a couple buttons on his dress shirt, lazily making his way towards the set of double doors that lead into the bedroom. He tries to be quiet as slips inside, but Steve’s already pushing up on his elbows, smiling drowsily at Tony and rubbing at his eyes. Tony would never tell him, but he secretly thinks it’s cute that he looks so small in the wide expanse of Tony’s California King Size mattress.

“Hey, you,” Steve hums, voice rough with sleep. He rises up onto his knees and clumsily makes his way to the edge of the bed, and Tony moves closer too, drawn forward as if by magnetic pull.

“Hey yourself,” Tony shoots back, settling his hands on Steve’s hips. Tony realizes Steve is wearing a Stark Industries sweatshirt from his own closet — so big on him that it’s almost slipping off one of his shoulders. Tony brushes the hair out of his eyes, stares into that clear blue and feels all the tension drain out of his body. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“Gross,” Steve teases, wrinkling his nose and leaning forward to press a sweet kiss on Tony’s mouth. Tony can’t resist making it a little dirty, introducing tongue and sliding his hand around Steve’s hip and over his ass. From the way Steve sighs against his lips, he doesn’t seem to mind.

Steve’s the one to pull back first, but he doesn’t go far, keeping his arms looped around Tony’s neck. “How was your day?”

“Awful,” Tony admits, and Steve frowns. “But then I saw you, so.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but Tony knows him well enough to see the affection in them, the smile pushing at the corner of his mouth. He tugs Tony down onto the bed in one quick motion and climbs on top of him, legs settling on either side of Tony’s waist.

“Why are you so sappy when you’re tired?” he asks, holding Tony’s wrists down.

Tony grins lazily up at him, very narrowly resisting the urge to just start taking his clothes off. “Maybe you coupled up with a sappy guy.”

Steve snorts. “No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I believe his first words about me were—“

Tony slips out of Steve’s hold and claps a hand over his mouth, chest seizing with laughter. “I really don’t think we need to relive that.”

Steve wraps his fingers around Tony’s wrist and gently tugs it away, this soft, perfect look on his face. He bends down to kiss Tony again, and this time their bodies slot together, and Tony can push a hand up under the hem of the sweatshirt, run his fingers along the smooth skin of Steve’s stomach.

“Okay,” he breathes, arousal twisting in his stomach as Steve moves down to kiss his neck, “okay, so, I feel like the plan should be: we have sex.”

“Great start.”

“I know! Then I order burgers, veggie for you, six for me.”

Steve stops sucking on Tony’s collarbone and sits up, bracing his hands on Tony’s chest. “I already brought you burgers. From Shake Shake Shake. Probably have to pop ‘em in the microwave, but.”

“You did?” Tony asks, going completely and utterly gooey.

“Yeah,” Steve smiles crookedly, reaches up to run his hand through Tony’s hair. Tony very nearly moans at the feeling. “Yeah, a chocolate milkshake too.”

And it’s— it’s not a huge thing, it’s just burgers, but Steve knows his favorite restaurant closes before Tony gets off, and he knows Tony never remembers to order them while he’s still on the clock, and the place in question is pretty far away from Steve’s apartment _and_ the tower, so the fact that he went to the trouble to get them just feels—

“I love you,” Tony says, pulling Steve down onto the bed next to him. Steve laughs and goes easily, settling his head into the crook of Tony’s arm.

“Yeah, yeah. But we’re spending this weekend in Brooklyn, the food’s better anyways.”

“If you insist,” Tony hums, grabbing at one of Steve’s legs and draping it across his waist. He tips his head down to press a kiss on Steve's crown.

“I do,” Steve warns sharply, lightly pinching Tony’s stomach. “I know you hate it but that’s just because I haven’t house-trained you yet.”

“It’s not that bad, I guess. Not when I’m waking up with you.”

Steve looks up at Tony, resting his chin on Tony’s chest and fluttering those devastating baby blues. He really is beautiful — hair mussed, eyes softened by sleep, expression easy and relaxed. “I love you, too,” he says, and, god, that’s it. That’s everything.

For the rest of the evening, Tony keeps coming back to this one, overwhelming feeling: he really, really, _really_ likes his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -HEAVES ENORMOUS SIGH- IT IS DONE!! damn this got long!! big thank you to everyone who has stuck around, left comments, & left kudos. you're soooo amazing and you kept me motivated through writing (what has felt like) A Short Novella.
> 
> also big thanks to fernanda for the prompt!! i hope you enjoyed how everything turned out bc you are the sweetest person ever <3
> 
> talk to me about my stevetony addiction at quidhitch dot tumblr dot com

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr @ quidhitch and check out the other MTH works in the tag! they're all amazing!!


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